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NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 


OF  THE 


BLACK  FOREST 


BY 


AMELIA  B.  EDWARDS 

author  of  "Barbara's  history,"  "debenham's  vow,''  etc. 


fe&i 

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_Tttes 

lJSSl; 

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NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A. 

STOKES 

COMPANY 

I  890 

1      *  I 


-  •   • 


» •  •    •»  *  • 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS  OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST  7 

THE  STORY  OF  SALOME 45 

IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL 79 

THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE  PALAZZO  BORHKLI.O.         .         .  105 

THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS 145 

SISTER  JOHANNA'S  STORY 189 

ALL-SAINTS'  EVE 213 


302746 


A  NIGHT  ON  THE 

BORDERS  OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST. 


A  NIGHT  ON  THE 
BORDERS  OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST. 


My  story  (if  story  it  can  be  called,  being  an 
episode  in  my  own  early  life)  carries  me  back  to  a 
time  when  the  world  and  I  were  better  friends  than 
we  are  likely,  perhaps,  ever  to  be  again.  I  was 
young  then.  I  had  good  health,  good  spirits,  and 
tolerably  good  looks.  I  had  lately  come  into  a 
snug  little  patrimony,  which  I  have  long  since  dis- 
sipated; and  I  was  in  love,  or  fancied  myself  in 
love,  with  a  charming  coquette,  who  afterwards 
threw  me  over  for  a  West-country  baronet  with 
seven  thousand  a  year. 

So  much  for  myself.  The  subject  is  not  one 
that  I  particularly  care  to  dwell  upon;  but  as  I 
happen  to  be  the  hero  of  my  own  narrative,  some 
sort  of  self-introduction  is,  I  suppose,  necessary. 

To  begin  then — Time:  seventeen  years  ago. 

Hour: — three  o'clock  p.m.,  on  a  broiling,  cloud- 
less September  afternoon. 

Scene: — a  long,  straight,  dusty  road,  bordered 
with  young  trees;  a  far-stretching,  undulating  plain, 
yellow  for  the  most  part  with  corn-stubble;  singu- 
larly barren  of  wood  and  water;  sprinkled  here  and 


IO  A  NIGHT   ON  THE   BORDERS 

there  with  vineyards,  farmsteads,  and  hamlets;  and 
bounded  in  the  extreme  distance  by  a  low  chain  of 
purple  hills. 

Place — a  certain  dull,  unfrequented  district  in 
the  little  kingdom  of  Wurtemberg,  about  twelve 
miles  north  of  Heilbronn,  and  six  south-east  of  the 
Neckar. 

Dramatis  Persona?: — myself,  tall,  sunburnt,  dusty; 
in  grey  suit,  straw  hat,  knapsack  and  gaiters.  In 
the  distance,  a  broad-backed  pedestrian  wielding  a 
long  stick  like  an  old  English  quarter-staff. 

Now,  not  being  sure  that  I  took  the  right  turn- 
ing at  the  cross-roads  a  mile  or  two  back,  and  hav- 
ing plodded  on  alone  all  day,  I  resolved  to  over- 
take this  same  pedestrian,  and  increased  my  pace 
accordingly.  He,  meanwhile,  unconscious  of  the 
vicinity  of  another  traveller,  kept  on  at  an  easy 
"sling-trot,"  his  head  well  up,  his  staff  swinging  idly 
in  his  hand — a  practised  pedestrian,  evidently,  and 
one  not  easily  out-walked  through  a  long  day. 

I  gained  upon  him,  however,  at  every  step,  and 
could  have  passed  him  easily;  but  as  I  drew  near 
he  suddenly  came  to  a  halt,  disencumbered  himself 
of  his  wallet,  and  stretched  himself  at  full  length 
under  a  tree  by  the  way-side. 

I  saw  now  that  he  was  a  fine,  florid,  handsome 
fellow  of  about  twenty-eight  or  thirty  years  of  age 
— a  thorough  German  to  look  at;  frank,  smiling, 
blue-eyed;  dressed  in  a  light  holland  blouse  and 
loose  grey  trousers,  and  wearing  on  his  head  a 
little  crimson  cap  with  a  gold  tassel,  such  as  the 
students  wear   at  Heidelberg  university.     He  lifted 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  I  I 

it,  with  the  customary  u  Gut  en  Abend"  as  I  came  up, 
and  when  I  stopped  to  speak,  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  ready  politeness,  and  remained  standing. 

"Niedersdorf,  mein  Herr?"  said  he,  in  answer 
to  my  inquiry.  "About  four  miles  farther  on.  You 
have  but  to  keep  straight  forward." 

"Many  thanks,"  I  said.  "You  were  resting.  I 
am  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you." 

He  put  up  his  hand  with  a  deprecating  gesture. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said.  "I  have  walked  far, 
and  the  day  is  warm." 

"I  have  only  walked  from  Heilbronn,  and  yet  I 
am  tired.     Pray  don't  let  me  keep  you  standing." 

"Will  you  also  sit,  mein  Herd"  he  asked  with 
a  pleasant  smile.     "There  is  shade  for  both." 

So  I  sat  down,  and  we  fell  into  conversation.  I 
began  by  offering  him  a  cigar;  but  he  pulled  out 
his  pipe — a  great  dangling  German  pipe,  with  a 
flexible  tube  and  a  painted  china  bowl  like  a  small 
coffee-cup. 

"A  thousand  thanks,"  he  said;  "but  I  prefer  this 
old  pipe  to  all  the  cigars  that  ever  came  out  of 
Havannah.  It  was  given  to  me  eight  years  ago, 
when  I  was  a  student;  and  my  friend  who  gave  it 
to  me  is  dead." 

"You  were  at  Heidelberg1?"  I  said  interroga- 
tively. 

"Yes;  and  Fritz  (that  was  my  friend)  was  at 
Heidelberg  also.  He  was  a  wonderful  fellow;  a 
linguist,  a  mathematician,  a  botanist,  a  geologist. 
He    was    only    five-and-twenty    when    the    govern- 


12  A  NIGHT   ON  THE   BORDERS 

ment  appointed  him  naturalist  to  an  African  explor- 
ing party;  and  in  Africa  he  died." 

"Such  a  man,"  said  I,  "was  a  loss  to  the  world." 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  replied  simply;  "but  a  greater  loss 
to  me." 

To  this  I  could  answer  nothing;  and  for  some 
minutes  we  smoked  in  silence. 

"I  was  not  clever  like  Fritz,"  he  went  on  pre- 
sently. "When  I  left  Heidelberg,  I  went  into  busi- 
ness. I  am  a  brewer,  and  I  live  at  Stuttgart.  My 
name  is  Gustav  Bergheim — what  is  yours1?" 

"Hamilton,"  I  replied;  "Chandos  Hamilton." 

He  repeated  the  name  after  me. 

"You  are  an  Englishman?"  he  said. 

I  nodded. 

"Good.  I  like  the  English.  There  was  an  Eng- 
lishman at  Heidelberg — such  a  good  fellow!  his 
name  was  Smith.     Do  you  know  him?" 

I  explained  that,  in  these  fortunate  islands,  there 
were  probably  some  thirty  thousand  persons  named 
Smith,  of  whom,  however,  I  did  not  know  one. 

"And  are  you  a  milord,  and  a  Member  of  Par- 
liament?" 

I  laughed,  and  shook  my  head. 

"No,  indeed,"  I  replied;  "neither.  I  read  for 
the  bar;  but  I  do  not  practise.  I  am  an  idle  man 
— of  very  little  use  to  myself,  and  of  none  to  my 
country." 

"You  are  travelling  for  your  amusement?" 

"I  am.  I  have  just  been  through  the  Tyrol, and 
as  far  as  the  Italian  lakes — on  foot,  as  you  see  me. 


OF  THE   BLACK   FOREST.  1 3 

But  tell  me  about  yourself.  That  is  far  more  in- 
teresting." 

"About  myself?"  he  said  smiling.  "Ah,  mein 
Herr,  there  is  not  much  to  tell.  I  have  told  you 
that  I  live  at  Stuttgart.  Well,  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  I  allow  myself  a  few  weeks'  holiday,  and  I 
am  now  on  my  way  to  Frankfort,  to  see  my  Madchen, 
who  lives  there  with  her  parents." 

"Then  I  may  congratulate  you  on  the  certainty 
of  a  pleasant  time." 

"Indeed,  yes.  We  love  each  other  well,  my 
Madchen  and  I.  Her  name  is  Frederika,  and  her 
father  is  a  rich  banker  and  wine  merchant.  They 
live  in  the  Neue  Mainzer  Strasse  near  the  Taunus 
Gate;  but  the  Herr  Hamilton  does  not,  perhaps, 
know  Frankfort1?" 

I  replied  that  I  knew  Frankfort  very  well,  and 
that  the  Neue  Mainzer  Strasse  was,  to  my  thinking, 
the  pleasantest  situation  in  the  city.  And  then  I 
ventured  to  ask  if  the  Fraulein  Frederika  was 
pretty. 

"I  think  her  so,"  he  said  with  his  boyish  smile; 
"but  then,  you  see,  my  eyes  are  in  love.  You  shall 
judge,  however,  for  yourself." 

And  with  this,  he  disengaged  a  locket  from  his 
watch-chain,  opened  it,  and  showed  me  the  portrait 
of  a  golden-haired  girl,  who,  without  being  actually 
handsome,  had  a  face  as  pleasant  to  look  upon  as 
his  own. 

"Well?"  he  said  anxiously.    "What  do  you  say?" 

"I  say  that  she  has  a  charming  expression,"  I 
replied. 


14  A  NIGHT   ON  THE  BORDERS 

"But  you  do  not  think  her  pretty?" 

"Nay,  she  is  better  than  pretty.  She  has  the 
beauty  of  real  goodness." 

His  face  glowed  with  pleasure. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said,  kissing  the  portrait,  and 
replacing  it  upon  his  chain.  "She  is  an  angel!  We 
are  to  be  married  in  the  Spring." 

Just  at  this  moment,  a  sturdy  peasant  came 
trudging  up  from  the  direction  of  Niedersdorf, 
under  the  shade  of  a  huge  red  cotton  umbrella.  He 
had  taken  his  coat  off,  probably  for  coolness,  or  it 
might  be  for  economy,  and  was  carrying  it,  neatly 
folded  up,  in  a  large,  new  wooden  bucket.  He 
saluted  us  with  the  usual  "Guten  Abend"  as  he  ap- 
proached. 

To  which  Bergheim  laughingly  replied  by  ask- 
ing if  the  bucket  was  a  love-token  from  his  sweet- 
heart. 

"Nein,  nein,"  he  answered  stolidly;  "I  bought  it 
at  the  Kermess*  up  yonder." 

"So!  there  is  a  Kermess  at  Niedersdorf1?" 

"Ach,  Himmel! — a  famous  Kermess.  All  the 
world  is  there  to-day." 

And  with  a  nod,  he  passed  on  his  way. 

My  new  friend  indulged  in  a  long  and  dismal 
whistle. 

"Der  Teufel!"  he  said,  "this  is  awkward.  I'll 
be  bound,  now,  there  won't  be  a  vacant  room  at 
any  inn  in  the  town.  And  I  had  intended  to  sleep 
at  Niedersdorf  to-night.     Had  you?" 

"Well,  I  should   have   been   guided  by  circum- 

*  Kermess — A  fair. 


OF   THE   BLACK   FOREST.  1 5 

stances.  I  should  perhaps  have  put  up  at  Nieders- 
dorf,  if  I  had  found  myself  tired  and  the  place 
comfortable;  or  I  might  have  dined  there,  and  after 
dinner  taken  some  kind  of  light  vehicle  as  far  as 
Rotheskirche." 

"Rotheskirche!"  he  repeated.     "Where  is  that?" 

"It  is  a  village  on  the  Neckar.  My  guide-book 
mentions  it  as  a  good  starting-point  for  pedestrians, 
and  I  am  going  to  walk  from  there  to  Heidelberg." 

"But  have  you  not  been  coming  out  of  your 
way?" 

"No;  I  have  only  taken  a  short  cut  inland,  and 
avoided  the  dull  part  of  the  river.  You  know  the 
Neckar,  of  course?" 

"Only  as  far  as  Neckargemund;  but  I  have  heard 
that  higher  up  it  is  almost  as  fine  as  the  Rhine." 

"Hadn't  you  better  join  me?"  I  said,  as  we  ad- 
justed our  knapsacks  and  prepared  to  resume  our 
journey. 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling. 

"Nay,"  he  replied,  "my  route  leads  me  by  Buchen 
and  Darmstadt.  I  have  no  business  to  go  round  by 
Heidelberg." 

"It  would  be  worth  the  detour" 

"Ah,  yes;  but  it  would  throw  me  two  days  later." 

"Not  if  you  made  up  for  lost  time  by  taking  the 
train  from  Heidelberg." 

He  hesitated. 

"I  should  like  it,"  he  said. 

"Then  why  not  do  it?" 

"Well — yes — I  will  do  it.  I  will  go  with  you. 
There!  let  us  shake  hands  on  it,  and  be  friends." 


1 6  A  NIGHT   ON  THE  BORDERS 

So  we  shook  hands,  and  it  was  settled. 

The  shadows  were  now  beginning  to  lengthen; 
but  the  sun  still  blazed  in  the  heavens  with  unabated 
intensity.  Bergheim,  however,  strode  on  as  lightly, 
and  chatted  as  gaily,  as  if  his  day's  work  was  only 
just  beginning.  Never  was  there  so  simple,  so  open- 
hearted  a  fellow.  He  wore  his  heart  literally  upon 
his  sleeve,  and,  as  we  went  along,  told  me  all  his 
little  history;  how,  for  instance,  his  elder  sister,  hav- 
ing been  betrothed  to  his  friend  Fritz,  had  kept 
single  ever  since  for  his  sake;  how  he  was  himself 
an  only  son,  and  the  idol  of  his  mother,  now  a 
widow;  how  he  had  resolved  never  to  leave  either 
her  or  his  maiden  sister;  but  intended  when  he 
married  to  take  a  larger  house,  and  bring  his  wife 
into  their  common  home;  how  Frederika's  father  had 
at  first  opposed  their  engagement  for  that  reason; 
how  Frederika  (being,  as  he  had  already  said,  an 
angel)  had  won  the  father's  consent  last  New  Year's 
Day;  and  how  happy  he  was  now;  and  how  happy 
they  should  be  in  the  good  time  coming;  together 
with  much  more  to  the  same  effect. 

To  all  this  I  listened,  and  smiled,  and  assented, 
putting  in  a  word  here  and  there,  as  occasion  offered, 
and  encouraging  him  to  talk  on  to  his  heart's  content. 

And  now  with  every  mile  that  brought  us  nearer 
to  Niedersdorf,  the  signs  of  fair-time  increased  and 
multiplied.  First  came  straggling  groups  of  home- 
ward-bound peasants — old  men  and  women  totter- 
ing under  the  burden  of  newly-purchased  household 
goods;  little  children  laden  with  gingerbread  and 
toys;   young  men  and  women  in  their  holiday-best 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  1-7 

— the  latter  with  garlands  of  oak-leaves  bound  about 
their  hats.  Then  came  an  open  cart  full  of  laugh- 
ing girls;  then  more  pedestrians;  then  an  old  man 
driving  a  particularly  unwilling  pig;  then  a  royster- 
ing  party  of  foot-soldiers;  and  so  on,  till  not  only 
the  road,  but  the  fields  on  either  side  and  every 
path  in  sight,  swarmed  with  a  double  stream  of  way- 
farers— the  one  coming  from  the  fair — the  other 
setting  towards  it. 

Presently,  through  the  clouds  of  dust  and  to- 
bacco-smoke that  fouled  the  air,  a  steeple  and  cot- 
tages became  visible;  and  then,  quite  suddenly,  we 
found  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  the  fair. 

Here  a  compact,  noisy,  smoking,  staring,  laugh- 
ing, steaming  crowd  circulated  among  the  booths; 
some  pushing  one  way,  some  another — some  intent 
on  buying — some  on  eating  and  drinking — some  on 
love-making  and  dancing.  In  one  place  we  came 
upon  rows  of  little  open  stalls  for  the  sale  of  every 
commodity  under  heaven.  In  another,  we  peeped 
into  a  great  restaurant-booth  full  of  country  folks 
demolishing  pyramids  of  German  sausage  and  seas 
of  Bairisch  beer.  Yonder,  on  a  raised  stage  in 
front  of  a  temporary  theatre,  strutted  a  party  of 
strolling  players  in  their  gaudy  tinsels  and  ballet- 
dresses.  The  noise,  the  smells,  the  elbowing,  the 
braying  of  brass  bands,  the  insufferable  heat  and 
clamour,  made  us  glad  to  push  our  way  through  as 
fast  as  possible,  and  take  refuge  in  the  village  inn. 
But  even  here  we  could  scarcely  get  a  moment's 
attention.  There  were  parties  dining  and  drinking 
in  every  room  in  the  house — even  in  the  bed-rooms; 

The  Black  Forest.  2 


1 8  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

while  the  passages,  the  bar,  and  the  little  gardens, 
front  and  back,  were  all  full  of  soldiers,  free-shooters, 
and  farmers. 

Having  with  difficulty  succeeded  in  capturing  a 
couple  of  platters  of  bread  and  meat  and  a  measure 
of  beer,  we  went  round  to  the  stable-yard,  which  was 
crowded  with  charrettes,  ein-spanner,  and  country 
carts  of  all  kinds.  The  drivers  of  some  of  these 
were  asleep  in  their  vehicles;  others  were  gambling 
for  kreutzers  on  the  ground;  none  were  willing  to 
put  their  horses  to  for  the  purpose  of  driving  us  to 
Rotheskirche-on-the-Neckar. 

"Ach,  Herr  Gott!"  said  one,  "I  brought  my  folks 
from  Friihlingsfeld — near  upon  ten  stunden— and 
shall  have  to  take  them  back  by  and  by.  That's  as 
much  as  my  beasts  can  do  in  one  day,  and  they 
shouldn't  do  more  for  the  king!" 

"I've  just  refused  five  florins  to  go  less  than  half 
that  distance,"  said  another. 

At  length  one  fellow,  being  somewhat  less  im- 
practicable than  the  rest,  consented  to  drive  us  as 
far  as  a  certain  point  where  four  roads  met,  on  con- 
dition that  we  shared  his  vehicle  with  two  other 
travellers,  and  that  the  two  other  travellers  consented 
to  let  us  do  so. 

"And  even  so,"  he  added,  "I  shall  have  to  take 
them  two  miles  out  of  their  way — but,  perhaps,  being 
fair-time,  they  won't  mind  that." 

As  it  happened,  they  were  not  in  a  condition  to 
mind  that  or  anything  very  much,  being  a  couple  of 
freeshooters  from  the  Black  Forest,  wild  with  fun 
and  frolic,  and  somewhat  the  worse  for  many  pota- 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  1 9 

tions  of  Lager-bier.  One  of  them,  it  seemed,  had 
won  a  prize  at  some  shooting-match  that  same  morn- 
ing, and  they  had  been  celebrating  this  triumph  all 
day.  Having  kept  us  waiting,  with  the  horses  in,  for 
at  least  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  they  came,  escorted 
by  a  troop  of  their  comrades,  all  laughing,  talking, 
and  wound  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  excitement. 
Then  followed  a  scene  of  last  health-drinkings,  last 
hand-shakings,  last  embracements.  Finally,  we  drove 
off  just  as  it  was  getting  dusk,  followed  by  many 
huzzahs,  and  much  waving  of  grey  and  green  caps. 

For  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  they  were  both 
very  noisy,  exchanging  boisterous  greetings  with 
every  passer-by,  singing  snatches  of  songs,  and 
laughing  incessantly.  Then,  as  the  dusk  deepened 
and  we  left  the  last  stragglers  behind,  they  sank 
into  a  tipsy  stupor,  and  ended  by  falling  fast 
asleep. 

Meanwhile,  the  driver  lit  his  pipe  and  let  his 
tired  horses  choose  their  own  pace;  the  stars  came 
out  one  by  one  overhead;  and  the  road,  leaving 
the  dead  level  of  the  plain,  wound  upwards  through 
a  district  that  became  more  hilly  with  every  mile. 

Then  I  also  fell  asleep — I  cannot  tell  for  how 
long — to  be  waked  by-and-by  by  the  stopping  of 
the  charrette,  and  the  voice  of  the  driver,  saying: — 

"This  is  the  nearest  point  to  which  I  can  take 
these  Herren.     Will  they  be  pleased  to  alight?" 

I  sat  up  and  rubbed  my  eyes.  It  was  bright 
starlight.  Bergheim  was  already  leaning  out,  and 
opening  the  door.  Our  fellow-travellers  were  still 
sound   asleep.     We  were   in  the  midst   of  a  wild, 


20  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

hilly  country,  black  with  bristling  pine-woods;  and 
had  drawn  up  at  an  elevated  point  where  four 
roads  meet. 

"Which  of  these  are  we  to  take?"  asked  Bergheim, 
as  he  pulled  out  his  purse  and  counted  the  stipulated 
number  of  florins  into  the  palm  of  the  driver. 

The  man  pointed  with  his  whip  in  a  direction 
at  right  angles  to  the  road  by  which  he  was  himself 
driving. 

"And  how  far  shall  we  have  to  walk?" 

"To  Rotheskirche?" 

"Yes — to  Rotheskirche." 

He  grunted  doubtfully.  "Ugh!"  he  said,  "I 
can't  be  certain  to  a  mile  or  so.  It  may  be  twelve 
or  fourteen." 

"A  good  road?" 

"Yes — a  good  road;  but  hilly.  These  Herren 
have  only  to  keep  straight  forward.  They  cannot 
miss  the  way." 

And  so  he  drives  off,  and  leaves  us  standing  in 
the  road.  The  moon  is  now  rising  behind  a  slope 
of  dark  trees — the  air  is  chill — an  owl  close  by 
utters  its  tremulous,  melancholy  cry.  Place  and 
hour  considered,  the  prospect  of  twelve  or  fourteen 
miles  of  a  strange  road,  in  a  strange  country,  is 
anything  but  exhilarating.  We  push  on,  however, 
briskly;  and  Bergheim,  whose  good  spirits  are  in- 
vincible, whistles  and  chatters,  and  laughs  away 
as  gaily  as  if  we  were  just  starting  on  a  brilliant 
May  morning. 

"I  wonder  if  you  were  ever  tired  in  your  life!" 
I  exclaim  by  and  by,  half  peevishly. 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  21 

"Tired!"  he  echoes.  "Why,  I  am  as  tired  at 
this  moment  as  a  dog;  and  would  gladly  lie  down 
by  the  roadside,  curl  myself  up  under  a  tree,  and 
sleep  till  morning.  I  wonder,  by  the  way,  what 
o'clock  it  is." 

I  pulled  out  my  fusee-box,  struck  a  light,  and 
looked  at  my  watch.     It  was  only  ten  o'clock. 

"We  have  been  walking,"  said  Bergheim,  "about 
half  an  hour,  and  I  don't  believe  we  have  done 
two  miles  in  the  time.  Well,  it  can't  go  on  uphill 
like  this  all  the  way!" 

"Impossible,"  I  replied.  "Rotheskirche  is  on 
the  level  of  the  river.  We  must  sooner  or  later 
begin  descending  towards  the  valley  of  the  Neckar." 

"I  wish  it  might  be  sooner,  then,"  laughed  my 
companion,  "for  I  had  done  a  good  twenty  miles 
to-day  before  you  overtook  me." 

"Well,  perhaps  we  may  come  upon  some  place 
half  way.  If  so,  I  vote  that  we  put  up  for  the 
night,  and  leave  Rotheskirche  till  the  morning." 

"Ay,  that  would  be  capital!"  said  he.  "If  it 
wasn't  that  I  am  as  hungry  as  a  wolf,  I  wouldn't 
say  no  to  the  hut  of  a  charcoal-burner  to-night." 

And  now,  plodding  on  more  and  more  silently 
as  our  fatigue  increased,  we  found  the  pine-forests 
gradually  drawing  nearer,  till  by  and  by  they  en- 
closed us  on  every  side,  and  our  road  lay  through 
the  midst  of  them.  Here  in  the  wood,  all  was  dark 
— all  was  silent — not  a  breath  stirred.  The  moon 
was  rising  fast;  but  the  shadows  of  the  pines  lay 
long  and  dense  upon  the  road,  with  only  a  sharp 
silvery  patch  breaking  through  here  and  there.     By 


22  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

and  by  we  came  upon  a  broad  space  of  clearing, 
dotted  over  with  stacks  of  brushwood  and  great 
symmetrical  piles  of  barked  trunks.  Then  followed 
another  tract  of  close  forest.  Then  our  road  sud- 
denly emerged  into  the  full  moonlight,  and  some- 
times descending  abruptly,  sometimes  keeping  at  a 
dead  level  for  half  a  mile  together,  continued  to 
skirt  the  forest  on  the  left. 

"I  see  a  group  of  buildings  down  yonder,"  said 
Bergheim,  pointing  to  a  spot  deep  in  the  shadow 
of  the  hillside. 

I  could  see  nothing  resembling  buildings,  but 
he  stuck  to  his  opinion. 

"That  they  are  buildings,"  he  said,  "I  am  posi- 
tive. More  I  cannot  tell  by  this  uncertain  light. 
It  may  be  a  mere  cluster  of  cottages,  or  it  may  be 
a  farmhouse,  with  stacks  and  sheds  close  by.  I 
think  it  is  the  latter." 

Animated  by  this  hope,  we  now  pushed  on  more 
rapidly.  For  some  minutes  our  road  carried  us 
out  of  sight  of  the  spot;  but  when  we  next  saw  it, 
a  long,  low,  white-fronted  house  and  some  other 
smaller  buildings  were  distinctly  visible. 

"A  mountain  farmstead,  by  all  the  gods  of 
Olympus!"  exclaimed  Bergheim,  joyously.  "This 
is  good  fortune!  And  they  are  not  gone  to.  bed  yet, 
either." 

"How  do  you  know  that1?"  I  asked. 

"Because  I  saw  a  light." 

"But  suppose  they  do  not  wish  to  take  us  in?" 
I  suggested. 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  23 

"Suppose  an  impossibility!  Who  ever  heard  of 
inhospitality  among  our  Black  Forest  folk?" 

"Black  Forest!"  I  repeated.  "Do  you  call  this 
the  Black  Forest?" 

"Undoubtedly.  All  these  wooded  hills  south 
of  Heidelberg  and  the  Odenwald  are  outlying  spurs 
and  patches  of  the  old  legendary  Schwarzwald— 
now  dwindling  year  by  year.  Hark!  the  dogs  have 
found  us  out  already!" 

As  he  spoke,  a  dog  barked  loudly  in  the 
direction  of  the  farm;  and  then  another,  and  an- 
other. Bergheim  answered  them  with  a  shout.  Sud- 
denly a  bright  light  flashed  across  the  darkness — 
flitted  vaguely  for  a  moment  to  and  fro,  and  then 
came  steadily  towards  us;  resolving  itself  presently 
into  a  lanthorn  carried  by  a  man. 

We  hurried  eagerly  to  meet  him — at  all,  square- 
built,  heavy-browed  peasant,  about  forty  years  of 
age. 

"Who  goes  there1?"  he  said,  holding  the  lanthorn 
high  above  his  head,  and  shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hand. 

"Travellers,"  replied  my  companion.  "Tra- 
vellers wanting  food  and  shelter  for  the  night." 

The  man  looked  at  us  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"You  travel  late,"  he  said,  at  length. 

"Ay— and  we  must  have  gone  on  still  later,  if 
we  had  not  come  upon  your  house.  We  were 
bound  for  Rotheskirche.     Can  you  take  us  in." 

"Yes,"  he  said  sullenly.  "I  suppose  so.  This 
way." 

And,    swinging   the    lantho"rn    as  he    went,    he 


24  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

turned  on  his  heel  abruptly,  and  led  the  way  back 
to  the  house. 

"A  boorish  fellow  enough!"  said  I,  as  we 
followed. 

"Nay — a  mere  peasant!"  replied  Bergheim.  "A 
mere  peasant — rough,  but  kindly." 

As  we  drew  near  the  house,  two  large  mastiff 
pups  came  rushing  out  from  a  yard  somewhere  at 
the  back,  and  a  huge,  tawny  dog  chained  up  in  an 
open  shed  close  by,  strained  at  his  collar  and  yelled 
savagely. 

"Down,  Caspar!  Down,  Schwartz!"  growled  our 
conductor,  with  an  oath. 

And  immediately  the  pups  slunk  back  into  the 
yard,  and  the  dog  in  the  shed  dropped  into  a  low 
snarl,  eyeing  us  fiercely  as  we  passed. 

The  house-door  opened  straight  upon  a  large, 
low,  raftered  kitchen,  with  a  cavernous  fire-place  at 
the  further  end,  flanked  on  each  side  by  a  high- 
backed  settle.  The  settles,  the  long  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  the  stools  and  chairs  ranged 
round  the  walls,  the  heavy  beams  overhead,  from 
which  hung  strings  of  dried  herbs,  ropes  of  onions, 
hams,  and  the  like,  were  all  of  old,  dark  oak.  The 
ceiling  was  black  with  the  smoke  of  at  least  a 
century.  An  oak  dresser  laden  with  rough  blue 
and  grey  ware  and  rows  of  metal-lidded  drinking 
mugs;  an  old  blunderbuss  and  a  horn-handled 
riding- whip  over  the  chimney-piece;  a  couple  of 
hatchets,  a  spade,  and  a  fishing-rod  behind  the 
door;  and  a  Swiss  clock  in  the  corner,  completed 
the  furniture  of  the  room.   A  couple  of  half-charred 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  25 

logs  smouldered  on  the  hearth.  An  oil-lamp  flared 
upon  the  middle  of  the  table,  at  one  corner  of 
which  sat  two  men  with  a  stone  jug  and  a  couple 
of  beer-mugs  between  them,  playing  at  cards,  and 
a  third  man  looking  on.  The  third  man  rose  as 
we  entered,  and  came  forward.  He  was  so  like  the 
one  who  had  come  out  to  meet  us,  that  I  saw  at 
once  they  must  be  brothers. 

"Two  travellers,"  said  our  conductor,  setting 
down  his  lanthorn,  and  shutting  the  door  be- 
hind us. 

The  players  laid  down  their  greasy  cards  to 
stare  at  us.  The  second  brother,  a  trifle  more  civil 
than  the  first,  asked  if  we  wished  for  anything  be- 
fore going  to  bed. 

Bergheim  unslung  his  wallet,  flung  himself 
wearily  into  a  corner  of  the  settle,  and  said: — 

"Heavens  and  earth!  yes.  We  are  almost 
starving.  We  have  been  on  the  road  all  day,  and 
have  had  no  regular  dinner.  Is  this  a  farmhouse 
or  an  inn?" 

"Both." 

"What  have  you  in  the  house?" 

"  Ham  — eggs  —  voorst — cheese — wine — beer — 
coffee." 

"Then  bring  us  the  best  you  have,  and  plenty 
of  it,  and  as  fast  as  you  can.  We'll  begin  on  the 
voorst  and  a  bottle  of  your  best  wine,  while  the 
ham  and  eggs  are  frying;  and  we'll  have  the  coffee 
to  finish." 

The  man  nodded;  went  to  a  door  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room — repeated  the  order  to  some  one 


26  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

out  of  sight;  and  came  back  again,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets.  The  first  brother,  meanwhile,  was 
lounging  against  the  table,  looking  on  at  the 
players. 

"It's  a  long  game,"  he  said. 

"Ay — but  it's  just  ended,"  replied  one  of  the 
men,  putting  down  his  card  with  an  air  of  triumph. 

His  adversary  pondered,  threw  down  his  hand, 
and,  with  a  round  oath,  owned  himself  beaten. 

Then  they  divided  the  remaining  contents  of 
the  stone  jug,  drained  their  mugs,  and  rose  to  go. 
The  loser  pulled  out  a  handful  of  small  coin,  and 
paid  the  reckoning  for  both. 

"We've  sat  late,"  said  he,  with  a  glance  at  the 
clock.     "Good  night,  Karl — good  night,  Friedrich." 

The  first  brother,  whom  I  judged  to  be  Karl, 
nodded  sulkily.  The  second  muttered  a  gruff  sort 
of  good  night.  The  countrymen  lit  their  pipes,  took 
another  long  stare  at  Bergheim  and  myself,  touched 
their  hats,  and  went  away. 

The  first  brother,  Karl,  who  was  evidently  the 
master,  went  out  with  them,  shutting  the  door  with 
a  tremendous  bang.  The  younger,  Friedrich,  cleared 
the  board,  opened  a  cupboard  under  the  dresser, 
brought  out  a  loaf  of  black  bread,  a  lump  of 
voorst,  and  part  of  a  goat's  milk  cheese,  and  then 
went  to  fetch  the  wine.  Meanwhile  we  each  drew 
a  chair  to  the  table,  and  fell  to  vigorously.  When 
Friedrich  returned  with  the  wine,  a  pleasant  smell 
of  broiling  ham  came  in  with  him  through  the 
door. 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  2% 

"You  are  hungry,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  us 
from  under  his  black  brows. 

"Ay,  and  thirsty,"  replied  Gustav,  reaching  out 
his  hand  for  the  bottle.     "Is  your  wine  good?" 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Drink  and  judge  for  yourself,"  he  answered. 
"It's  the  best  we  have." 

"Then  drink  with  us,"  said  my  companion, 
good-humouredly,  filling  a  glass  and  pushing  it 
towards  him  across  the  table. 

But  he  shook  his  head  with  an  ungracious 
"Nein,  nein,"  and  again  left  the  room.  The  next 
moment  we  heard  his  heavy  footfall  going  to  and 
fro  overhead. 

"He  is  preparing  our  beds,"  I  said.  "Are  there 
no  women,  I  wonder,  about  the  place1?" 

"Well,  yes — this  looks  like  one,"  laughed  Berg- 
heim,  as  the  door  leading  to  the  inner  kitchen 
again  opened,  and  a  big  stolid-looking  peasant  girl 
came  in  with  a  smoking  dish  of  ham  and  eggs, 
which  she  set  down  before  us  on  the  table.  "Stop! 
stop!"  he  exclaimed,  as  she  turned  away.  "Don't 
be  in  such  a  hurry,  my  girl.     What  is  your  name?" 

She  stopped  with  a  bewildered  look,  but  said 
nothing.     Bergheim  repeated  the  question. 

"My — my  name1?"  she  stammered.     "Annchen." 

"Good.  Then,  Annchen"  (filling  a  bumper 
and  draining  it  at  a  draught),  "I  drink  to  thy 
health.  Wilt  thou  drink  to  mine?"  And  he 
pointed  to  the  glass  poured  out  for  the  landlord's 
brother. 

But  she  only  looked  at  him  in  the  same  scared, 


28  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

stupid  way,  and  kept  edging  away  towards  the 
door. 

"Let  her  go,"  I  said.  "She  is  evidently  half  an 
idiot." 

"She's  no  idiot  to  refuse  that  wine,"  replied 
Bergheim,  as  the  door  closed  after  her.  "It's  the 
most  abominable  mixture  I  ever  put  inside  my  lips. 
Have  you  tasted  it?" 

I  had  not  tasted  it  as  yet,  and  now  I  would 
not;  so,  the  elder  brother  coming  back  just  at  that 
moment,  we  called  for  beer. 

"Don't  you  like  the  wine1?"  he  said,  scowling. 

"No,"  replied  Bergheim.  "Do  you?  If  so,  you're 
welcome  to  the  rest  of  it." 

The  landlord  took  up  the  bottle  and  held  it  be- 
tween his  eyes  and  the  lamp. 

"Bad  as  it  is,"  he  said,  "you've  drunk  half 
of  it." 

"Not  I — only  one  glass,  thanks  be  to  Bacchus! 
There  stands  the  other.  Let  us  have  a  Schoppen 
of  your  best  beer — and  I  hope  it  will  be  better  than 
your  best  wine." 

The  landlord  looked  from  Bergheim  to  the  glass 
— from  the  glass  to  the  bottle.  He  seemed  to  be 
measuring  with  his  eye  how  much  had  really  been 
drunk.  Then  he  went  to  the  inner  door;  called  to 
Friedrich  to  bring  a  Schoppen  of  the  Bairisch,  and 
went  away,  shutting  the  door  after  him.  From  the 
sound  of  his  footsteps,  it  seemed  to  us  as  if  he  also 
was  gone  upstairs,  but  into  some  more  distant  part 
of  the  house.     Presently  the  younger  brother  re- 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.     .  2Q 

appeared   with   the    beer,  placed    it    before    us  in 
silence,  and  went  away  as  before. 

"The  most  forbidding,  disagreeable,  uncivil  pair 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life!"  said  I. 

"They're  not  fascinating,  I  admit,"  said  Berg- 
heim,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  the  air  of  a 
man  whose  appetite  is  somewhat  appeased.  "I 
don't  know  which  is  the  worst — their  wine  or  their 
manners." 

And  then  he  yawned  tremendously,  and  pushed 
out  his  plate,  which  I  heaped  afresh  with  ham  and 
eggs.  When  he  had  swallowed  a  few  mouthfuls,  he 
leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  declared  he 
was  too  tired  to  eat  more. 

"And  yet,"  he  added,  "I  am  still  hungry." 

"Nonsense!"  I  said;  "eat  enough  now  you  are 
about  it.     How  is  the  beer1?" 

He  took  a  pull  at  the  Schoppen. 

"Capital,"  he  said.     "Now  I  can  go  on  again." 

The  next  instant  he  was  nodding  over  his  plate. 

"I  am  ashamed  to  be  so  stupid,"  he  said,  rous- 
ing himself  presently;  "but  I  am  overpowered  with 
fatigue.  Let  us  have  the  coffee;  it  will  wake  me 
up  a  bit." 

But  he  had  no  sooner  said  this  than  his  chin 
dropped  on  his  breast,  and  he  was  sound  asleep. 

I  did  not  call  for  the  coffee  immediately.  I  let 
him  sleep,  and  went  on  quietly  with  my  supper. 
Just  as  I  had  done,  however,  the  brothers  came 
back  together,  Friedrich  bringing  the  coffee — two 
large  cups  on  a  tray.     The  elder,  standing  by  the 


30  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

table,  looked  down  at  Bergheim  with  his  unfriendly 
frown. 

"Your  friend  is  tired,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  he  has  walked  far  to-day — much  farther 
than  I  have." 

"Humph!  you  will  be  glad  to  go  to  bed." 

"Indeed  we  shall.     Are  our  rooms  ready?" 

"Yes." 

I  took  one  of  the  cups,  and  put  the  other  beside 
Bergheim's  plate. 

"Here,  Bergheim,"  I  said,  "wake  up;  the  coffee 
is  waiting." 

But  he  slept  on,  and  never  heard  me. 

I  then  lifted  my  own  cup  to  my  lips — paused 
— set  it  down  untasted.  It  had  an  odd,  pungent 
smell  that  I  did  not  like. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  it?"  I  said,  "it  does 
not  smell  like  pure  coffee." 

The  brothers  exchanged  a  rapid  glance. 

"It  is  the  Kirschenwasser,"  said  Karl.  "We  al- 
ways put  it  in  our  black  coffee." 

I  tasted  it,  but  the  flavour  of  the  coffee  was 
quite  drowned  in  that  of  the  coarse,  fiery  spirit. 

"Do  you  not  like  it?"  asked  the  younger  brother. 

"It  is  very  strong,"  I  said. 

"But  it  is  very  good,"  replied  he;  "real  Black 
Forest  Kirsch — the  best  thing  in  the  world,  if  one 
is  tired  after  a  journey.  Drink  it  off,  mein  Herr; 
it  is  of  no  use  to  sip  it.     It  will  make  you  sleep." 

This  was  the  longest  speech  either  of  them  had 
yet  made. 

"Thanks,"  I  said,  pulling  out  my  cigar-case,  "but 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  3  I 

this  stuff  is  too  powerful  to  be  drunk  at  a  draught. 
I  shall  make  it  last  out  a  cigar  or  two." 

"And  your  friend1?" 

"He  is  better  without  the  Kirsch,  and  may  sleep 
till  I  am  ready  to  go  to  bed." 

Again  they  looked  at  each  other. 

"You  need  not  sit  up,"  I  said  impatiently;  for 
it  annoyed  me,  somehow,  to  have  them  standing 
there,  one  at  each  side  of  the  table,  alternately 
looking  at  me  and  at  each  other.  "I  will  call  the 
Madchen  to  show  us  to  our  rooms  when  we  are 
ready." 

"Good,"  said  the  elder  brother,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation.     "Come,  Friedrich." 

Friedrich  turned  at  once  to  follow  him,  and  they 
both  left  the  room. 

I  listened.  I  heard  them  for  awhile  moving  to 
and  fro  in  the  inner  kitchen;  then  the  sound  of 
their  double  footsteps  going  up  the  stairs;  then  the 
murmur  of  their  voices  somewhere  above,  yet  not 
exactly  overhead;  then  silence. 

I  felt  more  comfortable,  now  that  they  were 
fairly  gone,  and  not  likely  to  return.  I  breathed 
more  freely.  I  had  disliked  the  brothers  from  the 
first.  I  had  felt  uneasy  from  the  moment  I  crossed 
their  threshold.  Nothing,  I  told  myself,  should  in- 
duce me  at  any  time,  or  under  any  circumstances, 
to  put  up  under  their  roof  again. 

Pondering  thus,  I  smoked  on,  and  took  another 
sip  of  the  coffee.  It  was  not  so  hot  now,  and  some 
of  the  strength  of  the  spirit  had  gone  off;  but 
under  the  flavour  of  the  Kirschenwasser  I  could  (or 


32  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

fancied  I  could)  detect  another  flavour,  pungent 
and  bitter — a  flavour,  in  short,  just  corresponding 
to  the  smell  that  I  had  at  first  noticed. 

This  startled  me.  I  scarcely  knew  why,  but  it 
did  startle  me,  and  somewhat  unpleasantly.  At  the 
same  instant  I  observed  that  Bergheim,  in  the  heavi- 
ness and  helplessness  of  sleep,  had  swayed  over  on 
one  side,  and  was  hanging  very  uncomfortably 
across  one  arm  of  his  chair. 

"Come,  come,"  I  said,  "wake  up,  Herr  fellow- 
traveller.  This  sort  of  dozing  will  do  you  no  good. 
Wake  up,  and  come  to  bed." 

And  with  this  I  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  tried 
to  rouse  him.  Then  for  the  first  time  I  observed 
that  his  face  was  deadly  white — that  his  teeth  were 
fast  clenched — that  his  breathing  was  unnatural  and 
laboured. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet.  I  dragged  him  into  an 
upright  posture;  I  tore  open  his  neckcloth;  I  was 
on  the  point  of  rushing  to  the  door  to  call  for  help, 
when  a  suspicion — one  of  those  terrible  suspicions 
which  are  suspicion  and  conviction  in  one — flashed 
suddenly  upon  me. 

The  rejected  glass  of  wine  was  still  standing  on 
the  table.  I  smelt  it — tasted  it.  My  dread  was 
confirmed.  It  had  the  same  pungent  odour,  the 
same  bitter  flavour  as  the  coffee. 

In  a  moment  I  measured  all  the  horror  of  my 
position;  alone — unarmed — my  unconscious  fellow- 
traveller  drugged  and  helpless  on  my  hands — the 
murderers  overhead,  biding  their  time — the  silence 
and  darkness  of  night — the  unfrequented  road — the 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  33 

solitary  house — the  improbability  of  help  from  with- 
out— the  imminence  of  the  danger  from  within.  .  .  . 
I  saw  it  all!  What  could  I  do?  Was  there  any 
way,  any  chance,  any  hope1? 

I  turned  cold  and  dizzy.  I  leaned  against  the 
table  for  support.  Was  I  also  drugged,  and  was 
my  turn  coming'?  I  looked  round  for  water,  but 
there  was  none  upon  the  table.  I  did  not  dare  to 
touch  the  beer,  lest  it  also  should  be  doctored. 

At  that  instant  I  heard  a  faint  sound  outside, 
like  the  creaking  of  a  stair.  My  presence  of  mind 
had  not  as  yet  for  a  moment  deserted  me,  and 
now  my  strength  came  back  at  the  approach  of 
danger.  I  cast  a  rapid  glance  round  the  room. 
There  was  the  blunderbuss  over  the  chimney-piece 
— there  were  the  two  hatchets  in  the  corner.  I 
moved  a  chair  loudly,  and  hummed  some  snatches 
of  songs. 

They  should  know  that  I  was  awake — this  might 
at  least  keep  them  off  a  little  longer.  The  scraps 
of  songs  covered  the  sound  of  my  footsteps  as  I 
stole  across  the  room  and  secured  the  hatchets. 
One  of  these  I  laid  before  me  on  the  table;  the 
other  I  hid  among  the  wood  in  the  wood-basket 
beside  the  hearth — singing,  as  it  were  to  myself,  all 
the  time. 

Then  I  listened  breathlessly. 

All  was  silent. 

Then  I  clinked  my  tea-spoon  in  my  cup  — 
feigned  a  long  yawn — under  cover  of  the  yawn  took 
down  the  blunderbuss  from  its  hook — and  listened 
again. 

The  Black  Forest.  3 


34  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

Still  all  was  silent — silent  as  death — save  only 
the  loud  ticking  of  the  clock  in  the  corner,  and  the 
heavy  beating  of  my  heart. 

Then,  after  a  few  seconds  that  dragged  past 
like  hours,  I  distinctly  heard  a  muffled  tread  steal- 
ing softly  across  the  floor  overhead,  and  another 
very  faint  retreating  creak  or  two  upon  the  stairs. 

To  examine  the  blunderbuss,  find  it  loaded  with 
a  heavy  charge  of  slugs,  test  the  dryness  of  the 
powder,  cock  it,  and  place  it  ready  for  use  beside 
the  hatchet  on  the  table,  was  but  the  work  of  a 
moment. 

And  now  my  course  was  taken.  My  spirits  rose 
with  the  possession  of  a  certain  means  of  defence, 
and  I  prepared  to  sell  my  own  life,  and  the  life  of 
the  poor  fellow  beside  me,  as  dearly  as  might  be. 

I  must  turn  the  kitchen  into  a  fortress,  and  de- 
fend my  fortress  as  long  as  defence  was  possible. 
If  I  could  hold  it  till  daylight  came  to  my  aid, 
bringing  with  it  the  chances  of  traffic,  of  passers-by, 
of  farm-labourers  coming  to  their  daily  work — then 
I  felt  we  should  be  comparatively  safe.  If,  how- 
ever, I  could  not  keep  the  enemy  out  so  long,  then 

I  had  another  resource But  of  this  there  was 

no  time  to  think  at  present.  First  of  all,  I  must 
barricade  my  fortress. 

The  windows  were  already  shuttered-up  and 
barred  on  the  inside.  The  key  of  the  house-door 
was  in  the  lock,  and  only  needed  turning.  The 
heavy  iron  bolt,  in  like  manner,  had  only  to  be  shot 
into  its  place.  To  do  this,  however,  would  make 
too   much   noise    just   now.       First   and    most   im- 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  35 

portant  was  the  door  communicating  with  the  inner 
kitchen  and  the  stairs.  This,  above  all,  I  must 
secure;  and  this,  as  I  found  to  my  dismay,  had  no 
bolts  or  locks  whatever  on  the  inside — nothing  but 
a  clumsy  wooden  latch! 

To  pile  against  it  every  moveable  in  the  room 
was  my  obvious  course;  but  then  it  was  one  that, 
by  the  mere  noise  it  must  make,  would  at  once 
alarm  the  enemy.  No!  I  must  secure  that  door — 
but  secure  it  silently — at  all  events  for  the  next  few 
minutes. 

Inspired  by  dread  necessity,  I  became  fertile  in 
expedients.  With  a  couple  of  iron  forks  snatched 
from  the  table,  I  pinned  the  latch  down,  forcing  the 
prongs  by  sheer  strength  of  hand  deep  into  the 
woodwork  of  the  door.  This  done,  I  tore  down 
one  of  the  old  rusty  bits  from  its  nail  above  the 
mantel-shelf,  and,  linking  it  firmly  over  the  thump- 
piece  of  the  latch  on  one  side,  and  over  the  clumsy 
catch  on  the  other,  I  improvised  a  door-chain  that 
would  at  least  act  as  a  momentary  check  in  case 
the  door  was  forced  from  without.  Lastly,  by  means 
of  some  half-charred  splinters  from  the  hearth,  I 
contrived  to  wedge  up  the  bottom  of  the  door  in 
such  a  manner  that,  the  more  it  was  pushed  in- 
wards, the  more  firmly  fixed  it  must  become. 

So  far  my  work  had  been  noiseless;  but  now 
the  time  was  come  when  it  could  be  so  no  longer. 
The  house-door  must  be  secured  at  all  costs;  and 
I  knew  beforehand  that  I  could  not  move  those 
heavy  fastenings  unheard.  Nor  did  I.  The  key, 
despite  all  my  efforts,  grated  loudly  in  the  lock,  and 

3* 


36  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

the  bolt  resisted  the  rusty  staples.  I  got  it  in,  how- 
everj  and  the  next  moment  heard  rapid  footsteps 
overhead. 

I  knew  now  that  the  crisis  was  coming,  and  from 
this  moment  prepared  for  open  resistance. 

Regardless  of  noise,  I  dragged  out  first  one 
heavy  oaken  settle,  and  then  the  other — placed  them 
against  the  inner  door — piled  them  with  chairs, 
stools,  firewood,  every  heavy  thing  I  could  lay  hands 
upon — raked  the  slumbering  embers,  and  threw 
more  wood  upon  the  hearth,  so  as  to  bar  that 
avenue,  if  any  attempt  was  made  by  way  of  the 
chimney — and  hastily  ransacked  every  drawer  in  the 
dresser,  in  the  hope  of  finding  something  in  the 
shape  of  ammunition. 

Meanwhile,  the  brothers  had  taken  alarm,  and 
having  tried  the  inner  door,  had  now  gone  round 
to  the  front,  where  I  heard  them  try  first  the  house- 
door  and  then  the  windows. 

"Open!  open,  I  say!"  shouted  the  elder  —  (I 
knew  him  by  his  voice).  "What  is  the  matter 
within?" 

"The  matter  is  that  I  choose  to  spend  the  night 
in  this  room,"  I  shouted  in  reply. 

"It  is  a  public  room — you  have  no  right  to  shut 
the  doors!"  he  said,  with  a  thundering  blow  upon 
the  lock. 

"Right  or  no  right,"  I  answered,  "I  shoot  dead 
the  first  man  who  forces  his  way  in!" 

There  was  a  momentary  silence,  and  I  heard 
them  muttering  together  outside. 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  37 

I  had  by  this  time  found,  at  the  back  of  one 
of  the  drawers ,  a  handful  of  small  shot  screwed  up 
in  a  bit  of  newspaper,  and  a  battered  old  powder- 
flask  containing  about  three  charges  of  powder. 
Little  as  it  was,  it  helped  to  give  me  confidence. 

Then  the  parleying  began  afresh. 

"Once  more,  accursed  Englishman  will  you 
open  the  door?" 

"No." 

A  torrent  of  savage  oaths — then  a  pause. 

"Force  us  to  break  it  open,  and  it  will  be  the 
worse  for  you!" 

"Try." 

All  this  time  I  had  been  wrenching  out  the 
hooks  from  the  dresser,  and  the  nails,  wherever  I 
could  find  any,  from  the  walls.  Already  I  had 
enough  to  reload  the  blunderbuss  three  times,  with 
my  three  charges  of  powder.  If  only  Bergheim  were 
himself  now!  .... 

I  still  heard  the  murmuring  of  the  brothers' 
voices  outside — then  the  sound  of  their  retreating 
footsteps — then  an  outburst  of  barking  and  yelping 
at  the  back,  which  showed  they  had  let  loose  the 
dogs.     Then  all  was  silent. 

Where  were  they  gone1?  How  would  they  begin 
the  attack?  In  what  way  would  it  all  end?  I 
glanced  at  my  watch.  It  was  just  twenty  minutes 
past  one.  In  two  hours  and  a  half,  or  three  hours, 
it  would  be  dawn.  Three  hours!  Great  Heavens! 
what  an  eternity! 

I  looked  round  to  see  if  there  was  anything  I 
could  still  do  for  defence;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 


746 


38  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

I  had  already  done  what  little  it  was  possible  to  do 
with  the  material  at  hand.     I  could  only  wait. 

All  at  once  I  heard  their  footsteps  in  the  house 
again.  They  were  going  rapidly  to  and  fro  over- 
head; then  up  and  down  the  stairs;  then  overhead 
again;  and  presently  I  heard  a  couple  of  bolts  shot, 
and  apparently  a  heavy  wooden  bar  put  up,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  inner  kitchen-door  which  I  had 
just  been  at  so  much  pains  to  barricade.  This 
done,  they  seemed  to  go  away.  A  distant  door 
banged  heavily;  and  again  there  was  silence. 

Five  minutes,  ten  minutes,  went  by.  Bergheim 
still  slept  heavily;  but  his  breathing,  I  fancied,  was 
less  stertorous,  and  his  countenance  less  rigid,  than 
when  I  first  discovered  his  condition.  I  had  no 
water  with  which  to  bathe  his  head;  but  I  rubbed 
his  forehead  and  the  palms  of  his  hands  with  beer, 
and  did  what  I  could  to  keep  his  body  upright. 

Then  I  heard  the  enemy  coming  back  to  the 
front,  slowly,  and  with  heavy  footfalls.  They  paused 
for  a  moment  at  the  front  door,  seemed  to  set 
something  down,  and  then  retreated  quickly.  After 
an  interval  of  about  three  minutes,  they  returned  in 
the  same  way;  stopped  at  the  same  place;  and  hur- 
ried off  as  before.  This  they  did  several  times  in 
succession.  Listening  with  suspended  breath  and 
my  ear  against  the  keyhole,  I  distinctly  heard  them 
deposit  some  kind  of  burden  each  time — evidently 
a  weighty  burden,  from  the  way  in  which  they  car- 
ried it;  and  yet,  strange  to  say,  one  that,  despite 
its  weight,  made  scarcely  any  noise  in  the  setting 
down. 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  39 

Just  at  this  moment,  when  all  my  senses  were 
concentrated  in  the  one  act  of  listening,  Bergheim 
stirred  for  the  first  time,  and  began  muttering. 

"The  man!"  he  said,  in  a  low,  suppressed  tone. 
"The  man  under  the  hearth!" 

I  flew  to  him  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice. 
He  was  recovering.  Heaven  be  thanked,  he  was 
recovering!  In  a  few  minutes  we  should  be  two — 
two  against  two — right  and  might  on  our  side — 
both  ready  for  the  defence  of  our  lives! 

"One  man  under  the  hearth,"  he  went  on,  in 
the  same  unnatural  tone.  "Four  men  at  the  bottom 
of  the  pond — all  murdered — foully  murdered!" 

I  had  scarcely  heeded  his  first  words;  but  now, 
as  their  sense  broke  upon  me,  that  great  rush  of 
exultation  and  thankfulness  was  suddenly  arrested. 
My  heart  stood  still;  I  trembled;  I  turned  cold  with 
horror. 

Then  the  veins  swelled  on  his  forehead;  his 
face  became  purple;  and  he  struck  out  blindly,  as 
one  oppressed  with  some  horrible  nightmare. 

"Blood!"  he  gasped.  "Everywhere  blood — don't 
touch  it.     God's  vengeance — help!"  .  .  . 

And  so,  struggling  violently  in  my  arms,  he 
opened  his  eyes,  stared  wildly  round,  and  made  an 
effort  to  get  upon  his  feet. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  said,  sinking  back 
again,  and  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  "Was  I 
asleep1?" 

I  rubbed  his  hands  and  forehead  again  with 
beer.  I  tasted  it,  and  finding  no  ill  flavour  upon  it, 
put  a  tiny  drop  to  his  lips. 


4   »  A   NIGHT   ON  THE  BORDERS 

"You  are  all  right  now,"  I  said.  "You  were 
very  tired,  and  you  fell  asleep  after  supper.  Don't 
you  remember'?" 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head.  "Ah,  yes,"  he 
said,  "I  remember.     I  have  been  dreaming"  .  .  . 

He  looked  round  the  room  in  a  bewildered  way; 
then,  struck  all  at  once  by  the  strange  disorder  of 
the  furniture,  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

I  told  him  in  the  least  alarming  way,  and  with 
the  fewest  words  I  could  muster,  but  before  I  could 
get  to  the  end  of  my  explanation  he  was  up,  ready 
for  resistance,  and  apparently  himself  again. 

"Where  are  they1?"  he  said.  "What  are  they 
doing  now?  Outside,  do  you  say?  Why,  good 
heavens!  man,  they're  blocking  us  in.  Listen!  — 
don't  you  hear? — it  is  the  rustling  of  straw.  Bring 
the  blunderbuss!  quick! — to  the  window  .  .  .  God 
grant  we  may  not  be  too  late!" 

We  both  rushed  to  the  window;  Bergheim  to 
undo  the  shutter,  and  I  to  shoot  down  the  first 
man  in  sight. 

"Look  there!"  he  said,  and  pointed  to  the 
door. 

A  thin  stream  of  smoke  was  oozing  under  the 
threshold  and  stealing  upward  in  a  filmy  cloud  that 
already  dimmed  the  atmosphere  of  the  room. 

"They  are  going  to  burn  us  out!"  I  exclaimed. 

"No,  they  are  going  to  burn  us  alive,"  replied 
Bergheim,  between  his  clenched  teeth.  "We  know 
too  much,  and  they  are  determined  to  silence  us  at 
all  costs,  though  they  burn  the  house  down  over 
our  heads.     Now  hold  your  breath,  for  I  am  going 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  4? 

to  open  the  window,   and  the   smoke  will  rush  in 
like  a  torrent." 

He  opened  it,  but  very  little  came  in— for  this 
reason,  that  the  outside  was  densely  blocked  with 
straw,  which  had  not  yet  ignited. 

In  a  moment  we  had  dragged  the  table  under 
the  window — put  our  weapons  aside  ready  for  use 
— and  set  to  work  to  cut  our  way  out. 

Bergheim,  standing  on  the  table,  wrenched  away 
the  straw  in  great  armfuls.  I  caught  it,  and  hurled 
it  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  We  laboured  at 
the  work  like  giants.  In  a  few  moments  the  pile 
had  mounted  to  the  height  of  the  table.  Then 
Bergheim  cried  out  that  the  straw  under  his  hands 
was  taking  fire,  and  that  he  dared  throw  it  back 
into  the  room  no  longer! 

I  sprang  to  his  aid  with  the  two  hatchets.  I 
gave  him  one — I  fell  to  work  with  the  other.  The 
smoke  and  flame  rushed  in  our  faces,  as  we  hewed 
down  the  burning  straw. 

Meanwhile,  the  room  behind  us  was  full  of 
smoke,  and  above  the  noise  of  our  own  frantic 
labour  we  heard  a  mighty  crackling  and  hissing,  as 
of  a  great  conflagration. 

"Take  the  blunderbuss  —  quick!"  cried  Berg- 
heim, hoarsely.  "There  is  nothing  but  smoke  out- 
side now,  and  burning  straw  below.  Follow  me! 
Jump  as  far  out  as  you  can,  and  shoot  the  first  you 
see!" 

And  with  this,  he  leaped  out  into  the  smoke, 
and  was  gone! 

I  only  waited    to    grope   out  the  blunderbuss; 


42  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BORDERS 

then,  holding  it  high  above  my  head,  I  shut  my 
eyes  and  sprang  after  him,  clearing  the  worst  of  the 
fire,  and  falling  on  my  hands  and  knees  among  a 
heap  of  smouldering  straw  and  ashes  beyond.  At 
the  same  instant  that  I  touched  the  ground,  I  heard 
the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle ,  and  saw  two  figures  rush 
past  me. 

To  dash  out  in  pursuit  without  casting  one 
backward  glance  at  the  burning  house  behind  me 
— to  see  a  tall  figure  vanishing  among  the  trees, 
and  two  others  in  full  chase — to  cover  the  foremost 
of  these  two  and  bring  him  down  as  one  would 
bring  down  a  wolf  in  the  open,  was  for  me  but  the 
work  of  a  second. 

I  saw  him  fall.     I  saw  the  other  hesitate,   look 

back,   throw  up  his  hands  with  a  wild  gesture,  and 

fly  towards  the  hills. 

#  *  #  * 

The  rest  of  my  story  is  soon  told.  The  one  I 
had  shot  was  Friedrich,  the  younger  brother.  He 
died  in  about  half  an  hour,  and  never  spoke  again. 
The  elder  escaped  into  the  forest,  and  there  suc- 
ceeded in  hiding  himself  for  several  weeks  among 
the  charcoal-burners.  Being  hunted  down,  how- 
ever, at  last,  he  was  tried  at  Heilbronn,  and  there 
executed. 

The  pair,  it  seemed,  were  practised  murderers. 
The  pond,  when  dragged,  was  found  to  contain  four 
of  their  victims;  and  when  the  crumbling  ruins  of 
the  homestead  were  cleared  for  the  purpose,  the 
mortal  remains  of  a  fifth  were  discovered  under  the 
hearth,  in  that  kitchen  which  had  so  nearly  proved 


OF  THE  BLACK  FOREST.  43 

our  grave.  A  store  of  money,  clothes,  and  two  or 
three  watches,  was  also  found  secreted  in  a  granary- 
near  the  house;  and  these  things  served  to  identify 
three  out  of  the  five  corpses  thus  providentially 
brought  to  light. 

My  friend ,  Gustav  Bergheim  (now  the  friend  of 
seventeen  years)  is  well  and  prosperous;  married 
to  his  "Madchen;"  and  the  happy  father  of  a 
numerous  family.  He  often  tells  the  tale  of  our 
terrible  night  on  the  borders  of  the  Black  Forest, 
and  avers  that  in  that  awful  dream  in  which  his 
senses  came  back  to  him,  he  distinctly  saw,  as  in  a 
vision,  the  mouldering  form  beneath  the  hearth,  and 
the  others  under  the  sluggish  waters  of  the  pond. 


THE  STORY  OF  SALOME. 


THE  STORY  OF  SALOME. 


A  few  years  ago,  no  matter  how  many,  I,  Har- 
court  Blunt,  was  travelling  with  my  friend  Coventry 
Tumour,  and  it  was  on  the  steps  of  our  hotel  that 
I  received  from  him  the  announcement  that  he  was 
again  in  love. 

"I  tell  you,  Blunt,"  said  my  fellow-traveller, 
"she's  the  loveliest  creature  I  ever  beheld  in  my 
life." 

I  laughed  outright. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  I  replied,  "you've  so  often 
seen  the  loveliest  creature  you  ever  beheld  in  your 
life." 

"Ay,  but  I  am  in  earnest  now  for  the  first 
time." 

"And  you  have  so  often  been  in  earnest  for  the 
first  time!  Remember  the  inn-keeper's  daughter  at 
Cologne." 

"A  pretty  housemaid,  whom  no  training  could 
have  made  presentable." 

"Then  there  was  the  beautiful  American  at 
Interlaken." 

"Yes;  but—" 

"And  the  bella  Marchesa  at  Prince  Torlonia's 
ball." 


48  THE   STORY  OF  SALOME. 

"Not  one  of  them  worthy  to  be  named  in  the 
same  breath  with  my  imperial  Venetian.  Come 
with  me  to  the  Merceria  and  be  convinced.  By  tak- 
ing a  gondola  to  St.  Mark's  Place  we  shall  be  there 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

I  went,  and  he  raved  of  his  new  flame  all  the 
way.  She  was  a  Jewess — he  would  convert  her. 
Her  father  kept  a  shop  in  the  Merceria — what  of 
that?  He  dealt  only  in  costliest  Oriental  mer- 
chandise, and  was  as  rich  as  a  Rothschild.  As  for 
any  probable  injury  to  his  own  prospects,  why  need 
he  hesitate  on  that  account1?  What  were  "pros- 
pects" when  weighed  against  the  happiness  of 
one's  whole  life?  Besides,  he  was  not  ambitious. 
He  didn't  care  to  go  into  Parliament.  If  his  uncle, 
Sir  Geoffrey,  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling,  what  then? 
He  had  a  moderate  independence  of  which  no  one 
living  could  deprive  him,  and  what  more  could  any 
reasonable  man  desire? 

I  listened,  smiled,  and  was  silent.  I  knew 
Coventry  Tumour  too  well  to  attach  the  smallest 
degree  of  importance  to  anything  that  he  might  say 
or  do  in  a  matter  of  this  kind.  To  be  distractedly 
in  love  was  his  normal  condition.  We  had  been 
friends  from  boyhood;  and  since  the  time  when  he 
used  to  cherish  a  hopeless  attachment  to  the  young 
lady  behind  the  counter  of  the  tart-shop  at  Harrow, 
I  had  never  known  him  "fancy-free"  for  more  than 
a  few  weeks  at  a  time.  He  had  gone  through  every 
phase  of  no  less  than  three  grandes  passions  during 
the  five  months  that  we  had  now  been  travelling 
together;  and  having  left  Rome  about  eleven  weeks 


THE  STORY   OF   SALOME.  49 

before  with  every  hope  laid  waste,  and  a  heart  so 
broken  that  it  could  never  by  any  possibility  be  put 
together  again,  he  was  now,  according  to  the  na- 
tural course  of  events,  just  ready  to  fall  in  love 
again. 

We  landed  at  the  traghetto  San  Marco.  It  was 
a  cloudless  morning  towards  the  middle  of  April, 
just  ten  years  ago.  The  Ducal  Palace  glowed  in 
the  hot  sunshine;  the  boatmen  were  clustered,  gos- 
siping, about  the  quay;  the  orange-vendors  were 
busy  under  the  arches  of  the  piazzetta;  the  flaneurs 
were  already  eating  ices  and  smoking  cigarettes 
outside  the  cafes.  There  was  an  Austrian  military 
band,  strapped,  buckled,  moustachioed,  and  white- 
coated,  playing  just  in  front  of  St.  Mark's;  and  the 
shadow  of  the  great  bell-tower  slept  all  across  the 
square. 

Passing  under  the  low  round  archway  leading 
•to  the  Merceria,  we  plunged  at  once  into  that  cool 
labyrinth  of  narrow,  intricate,  and  picturesque 
streets,  where  the  sun  never  penetrates — where  no 
wheels  are  heard,  and  no  beast  of  burden  is  seen 
— where  every  house  is  a  shop,  and  every  shop- 
front  is  open  to  the  ground,  as  in  an  Oriental 
bazaar — where  the  upper  balconies  seem  almost  to 
meet  overhead,  and  are  separated  by  only  a  strip 
of  burning  sky — and  where  more  than  three  people 
cannot  march  abreast  in  any  part.  Pushing  our 
way  as  best  we  might  through  the  motley  crowd 
that  here  chatters,  cheapens,  buys,  sells,  and  per- 
petually jostles  to  and  fro,  we  came  presently  to  a 
shop   for  the   sale  of  Eastern  goods.     A  few  glass 

The  Black  Forest.  4 


50  THE  STORY  OF  SALOME. 

jars,  filled  with  spices  and  some  pieces  of  stuff,  un- 
tidily strewed  the  counter  next  the  street;  but 
within,  dark  and  narrow  though  it  seemed,  the  place 
was  crammed  with  costliest  merchandise.  Cases  of 
gorgeous  Oriental  jewelry;  embroideries  and  fringes 
of  massive  gold  and  silver  bullion;  precious  drugs 
and  spices;  exquisite  toys  in  filigree;  miracles  of 
carving  in  ivory,  sandal-wood,  and  amber;  jewelled 
yataghans;  scimitars  of  state,  rich  with  "barbaric 
pearl  and  gold;"  bales  of  Cashmere  shawls,  China 
silks,  India  muslins,  gauzes,  and  the  like,  filled 
every  inch  of  available  space  from  floor  to  ceil- 
ing, leaving  only  a  narrow  lane  from  the  door  to 
the  counter,  and  a  still  narrower  passage  to  the 
rooms  beyond  the  shop. 

We  went  in.  A  young  woman  who  was  sitting 
reading  on  a  low  seat  behind  the  counter,  laid  aside 
her  book,  and  rose  slowly.  She  was  dressed  wholly 
in  black.  I  cannot  describe  the  fashion  of  her  gar- 
ments. I  only  know  that  they  fell  about  her  in 
long,  soft,  trailing  folds,  leaving  a  narrow  band  of 
fine  cambric  visible  at  the  throat  and  wrists;  and 
that,  however  graceful  and  unusual  this  dress  may 
have  been,  I  scarcely  observed  it,  so  entirely  was  I 
taken  up  with  admiration  of  her  beauty. 

For  she  was  indeed  very  beautiful — beautiful  in 
a  way  I  had  not  anticipated  Coventry  Tumour,  with 
all  his  enthusiasm,  had  failed  to  do  her  justice.  He 
had  raved  of  her  eyes — her  large,  lustrous,  melan- 
choly eyes, — of  the  transparent  paleness  of  her 
complexion,  of  the  faultless  delicacy  of  her  features; 
but  he  had  not  prepared  me  for  the  unconscious 


THE  STORY  OF  SALOME.  5 1 

dignity,  the  perfect  nobleness  and  refinement,  that 
informed  her  every  look  and  gesture.  My  friend 
requested  to  see  a  bracelet  at  which  he  had  been 
looking  the  day  before.  Proud,  stately,  silent,  she 
unlocked  the  case  in  which  it  was  kept,  and  laid  it 
before  him  on  the  counter.  He  asked  permission 
to  take  it  over  to  the  light.  She  bent  her  head,  but 
answered  not  a  word.  It  was  like  being  waited 
upon  by  a  young  Empress. 

Tumour  took  the  bracelet  to  the  door  and 
affected  to  examine  it.  It  consisted  of  a  double 
row  of  gold  coins  linked  together  at  intervals  by  a 
bean-shaped  ornament  studded  with  pink  coral  and 
diamonds.  Coming  back  into  the  shop  he  asked 
me  if  I  thought  it  would  please  his  sister,  to  whom 
he  had  promised  a  remembrance  of  Venice. 

"It  is  a  pretty  trifle,"  I  replied;  "but  surely  a 
remembrance  of  Venice  should  be  of  Venetian  manu- 
facture.    This,  I  suppose,  is  Turkish." 

The  beautiful  Jewess  looked  up.  We  spoke  in 
English;  but  she  understood,  and  replied. 

"E  Greco,  signore"  she  said  coldly. 

At  this  moment  an  old  man  came  suddenly  for- 
ward from  some  dark  counting-house  at  the  back 
— a  grizzled,  bearded,  eager-eyed  Shylock,  with  a 
pen  behind  his  ear. 

"Go  in,  Salome — go  in,  my  daughter,"  he  said 
hurriedly.     "I  will  serve  these  gentlemen." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  for  one  moment — then 
moved  silently  away,  and  vanished  in  the  gloom  of 
the  room  beyond. 

We  saw  her  no  more.    We  lingered  awhile  look- 

4* 


52  THE  STORY  OF  SALOME. 

ing  over  the  contents  of  the  jewel-cases;  but  in  vain. 
Then  Tumour  bought  his  bracelet,  and  we  went 
out  again  into  the  narrow  streets,  and  back  to  the 
open  daylight  of  the  Gran'  Piazza. 

"Well,"  he  said  breathlessly,  "what  do  you  think 
of  her?" 

"She  is  very  lovely." 

"Lovelier  than  you  expected?" 

"Much  lovelier.     But — " 

"But  what?" 

"The  sooner  you  succeed  in  forgetting  her  the 
better." 

He  vowed,  of  course,  that  he  never  would  and 
never  could  forget  her.  He  would  hear  of  no  in- 
compatibilities, listen  to  no  objections,  believe  in 
no  obstacles.  That  the  beautiful  Salome  was  her- 
self not  only  unconscious  of  his  passion  and  in- 
different to  his  person,  but  ignorant  of  his  very 
name  and  station,  were  facts  not  even  to  be  ad- 
mitted on  the  list  of  difficulties.  Finding  him  thus 
deaf  to  reason,  I  said  no  more. 

It  was  all  over,  however,  before  the  week  was 
out. 

"Look  here,  Blunt,"  he  said,  coming  up  to  me 
one  morning  in  the  coffee-room  of  our  hotel  just 
as  I  was  sitting  down  to  answer  a  pile  of  home- 
letters;  "would  you  like  to  go  on  to  Trieste  to- 
morrow? There,  don't  look  at  me  like  that — you 
can  guess  how  it  is  with  me.  I  was  a  fool  ever  to 
suppose  she  would  care  for  me — a  stranger,  a  for- 
eigner, a  Christian.     Well,  I'm  horribly  out  of  sorts, 


THE  STORY   OF  SALOME.  53 

anyhow — and — and  I  wish  I  was  a  thousand  miles 
off  at  this  moment!" 

*  *  *  # 

We  travelled  on  together  to  Athens,  and  there 
parted,  Tumour  being  bound  for  England,  and  I 
for  the  East.  My  own  tour  lasted  many  months 
longer.  I  went  first  to  Egypt  and  the  Holy  Land; 
then  joined  an  exploring  party  on  the  Euphrates; 
and  at  length,  after  just  twelve  months  of  Oriental 
life,  found  myself  back  again  at  Trieste  about  the 
middle  of  April  in  the  year  following  that  during 
which  occurred  the  events  I  have  just  narrated. 
There  I  found  that  batch  of  letters  and  papers  to 
which  I  had  been  looking  forward  for  many  weeks 
past;  and  amongst  the  former,  one  from  Coventry 
Tumour.  This  time  he  was  not  only  irrecoverably 
in  love,  but  on  the  eve  of  matrimony.  The  letter 
was  rapturous  and  extravagant  enough.  The  writer 
was  the  happiest  of  men;  his  destined  bride  the 
loveliest  and  most  amiable  of  her  sex;  the  future  a 
paradise;  the  past  a  melancholy  series  of  mistakes. 
As  for  love,  he  had  never,  of  course,  known  what 
it  was  till  now. 

And  what  of  the  beautiful  Salome1? 

Not  one  word  of  her  from  beginning  to  end. 
He  had  forgotten  her  as  utterly  as  if  she  had  never 
existed.  And  yet  how  desperately  in  love  and  how 
desperately  in  despair  he  was  "one  little  year  ago!" 
Ah,  yes;  but  then  it  was  "one  little  year  ago;"  and 
who  that  had  ever  known  Coventry  Tumour  would 
expect  him  to  remember  la  plus  grande  des  grandes 
passions  for  even  half  that  time? 


54  THE  STORY  OF  SALOME. 

I  slept  that  night  at  Trieste  and  went  on  next 
day  to  Venice.  Somehow  I  could  not  get  Tumour 
and  his  love-affairs  out  of  my  head.  I  remembered 
our  visit  to  the  Merceria.  I  was  haunted  by  the 
image  of  the  beautiful  Jewess.  Was  she  still  so 
lovely?  Did  she  still  sit  reading  in  her  wonted 
seat  by  the  open  counter,  with  the  gloomy  shop 
reaching  away  behind,  and  the  cases  of  rich  robes 
and  jewels  all  around1? 

An  irresistible  impulse  prompted  me  to  go  to 
the  Merceria  and  see  her  once  again.  I  went.  It 
had  been  a  busy  morning  with  me,  and  I  did  not 
get  there  till  between  three  and  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  The  place  was  crowded.  I  passed  up 
the  well-remembered  street,  looking  out  on  both 
sides  for  the  gloomy  little  shop  with  its  unattractive 
counter;  but  in  vain.  When  I  had  gone  so  far  that 
I  thought  I  must  have  passed  it,  I  turned  back. 
House  by  house  I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  very 
entrance,  and  still  could  not  find  it.  Then,  con- 
cluding I  had  not  gone  far  enough  at  first,  I  turned 
back  again  till  I  reached  a  spot  where  several  streets 
diverged.  Here  I  came  to  a  stand-still,  for  beyond 
this  point  I  knew  I  had  not  passed  before. 

It  was  now  evident  that  the  Jew  no  longer 
occupied  his  former  shop  in  the  Merceria,  and 
that  my  chance  of  discovering  his  whereabouts  was 
exceedingly  slender.  I  could  not  inquire  of  his 
successor,  because  I  could  not  identify  the  house. 
I  found  it  impossible  even  to  remember  what  trades 
were  carried  on  by  his  neighbours  on  either  side. 
I  was  ignorant  of  his  very  name.    Convinced,  there- 


THE   STORY  OF  SALOME.  55 

fore,  of  the  inutility  of  making  any  further  effort,  I 
gave  up  the  search,  and  comforted  myself  by  re- 
flecting that  my  own  heart  was  not  made  of  ada- 
mant, and  that  it  was,  perhaps,  better  for  my  peace 
not  to  see  the  beautiful  Salome  again.  I  was  des- 
tined to  see  her  again,  however,  and  that  ere  many 
days  had  passed  over  my  head. 

A  year  of  more  than  ordinarily  fatiguing  Eastern 
travel  had  left  me  in  need  of  rest,  and  I  had  re- 
solved to  allow  myself  a  month's  sketching  in  Venice 
and  its  neighbourhood  before  turning  my  face  home- 
ward. 

As,  therefore,  it  is  manifestly  the  first  object  of 
a  sketcher  to  select  his  points  of  view,  and  as  no 
more  luxurious  machine  than  a  Venetian  gondola 
was  ever  invented  for  the  use  of  man,  I  proceeded 
to  employ  the  first  days  of  my  stay  in  endless  boat- 
ings to  and  fro;  now  exploring  all  manner  of  canals 
and  canaletti;  now  rowing  out  in  the  direction  of 
Murano;  now  making  for  the  islands  beyond  San 
Pietro  Castello,  and  in  the  course  of  these  pilgrimages 
noting  down  an  infinite  number  of  picturesque  sites, 
and  smoking  an  infinite  number  of  cigarettes. 

It  was,  I  think,  about  the  fourth  or  fifth  day  of 
this  pleasant  work,  when  my  gondolier  proposed  to 
take  me  as  far  as  the  Lido.  It  wanted  about  two 
hours  to  sunset,  and  the  great  sand-bank  lay  not 
more  than  three  or  four  miles  away;  so  I  gave  the 
word,  and  in  another  moment  we  had  changed  our 
route  and  were  gliding  farther  and  farther  from 
Venice  at  each  dip  of  the  oar. 

Then  the  long,  dull,  distant  ridge  that  had  all 


56  THE   STORY   OF   SALOME. 

day  bounded  the  shallow  horizon  rose  gradually 
above  the  placid  level  of  the  Lagune;  assumed  a 
more  broken  outline;  resolved  itself  into  hillocks 
and  hollows  of  tawny  sand;  showed  here  and  there 
a  patch  of  parched  grass  and  tangled  brake;  and 
looked  like  the  coasts  of  some  inhospitable  desert 
beyond  which  no  traveller  might  penetrate.  My 
boatman  made  straight  for  a  spot  where  some 
stakes  at  the  water's  edge  gave  token  of  a  landing- 
place;  and  here,  though  with  some  difficulty,  for 
the  tide  was  low,  ran  the  gondola  aground.  I 
landed.     My  first  step  was  among  graves. 

"E'l  Cimiterio  Giudaico,  signore"  said  my  gon- 
dolier, with  a  touch  of  his  cap. 

The  Jewish  cemetery!  The  ghetto  of  the  dead! 
I  remembered  now  to  have  read  or  heard  long 
since  how  the  Venetian  Jews,  cut  off  in  death  as 
in  life  from  the  neighbourhood  of  their  Christian 
rulers,  had  been  buried  from  immemorial  time  upon 
this  desolate  waste.  I  stooped  to  examine  the  head- 
stone at  my  feet.  It  was  but  a  shattered  fragment, 
crusted  over  with  yellow  lichens,  and  eaten  away 
by  the  salt  sea  air.  I  passed  on  to  the  next,  and 
the  next. 

Some  were  completely  matted  over  with  weeds 
and  brambles;  some  were  half-buried  in  the  drifting 
-Bsnd;  of  some  only  a  corner  remained  above  the 
surface.  Here  and  there  a  name,  a  date,  a  frag- 
ment of  emblematic  carving  or  part  of  a  Hebrew 
inscription,  was  yet  legible;  but  all  were  more  or 
less  broken  and  effaced. 


THE  STORY  OF  SALOME.  57 

Wandering  on  thus  among  graves  and  hillocks, 
ascending  at  every  step,  and  passing  some  three 
or  four  glassy  pools  overgrown  with  gaunt-looking 
reeds,  I  presently  found  that  I  had  reached  the 
central  and  most  elevated  part  of  the  Lido,  and 
that  I  commanded  an  uninterrupted  view  on  every 
side.  On  the  one  hand  lay  the  broad,  silent 
Lagune  bounded  by  Venice  and  the  Euganean  hills 
— on  the  other,  stealing  up  in  long,  lazy  folds,  and 
breaking  noiselessly  against  the  endless  shore,  the 
blue  Adriatic.  An  old  man  gathering  shells  on  the 
seaward  side,  a  distant  gondola  on  the  Lagune, 
were  the  only  signs  of  life  for  miles  around. 

Standing  on  the  upper  ridge  of  this  narrow 
barrier,  looking  upon  both  waters,  and  watching 
the  gradual  approach  of  what  promised  to  be  a 
gorgeous  sunset,  I  fell  into  one  of  those  wandering 
trains  of  thought  in  which  the  real  and  unreal  suc- 
ceed each  other  as  capriciously  as  in  a  dream. 

I  remembered  how  Goethe  here  conceived  his 
vertebral  theory  of  the  skull — how  Byron ,  too  lame 
to  walk,  kept  his  horse  on  the  Lido,  and  here  rode 
daily  to  and  fro — how  Shelley  loved  the  wild  soli- 
tude of  the  place,  wrote  of  it  in  Julian  and  Maddalo, 
and  listened  perhaps  from  this  very  spot,  to  the 
mad-house  bell  on  the  island  of  San  Giorgio.  Then 
I  wondered  if  Titian  used  sometimes  to  come  hither 
from  his  gloomy  house  on  the  other  side  of  Venice, 
to  study  the  gold  and  purple  of  these  western  skies 
— if  Othello  had  walked  here  with  Desdemona — if 
Shylock  was  buried  yonder,  and  Leah  whom  he 
loved  "when  he  was  a  bachelor," 


58  THE  STORY  OF  SALOME. 

And  then  in  the  midst  of  my  reverie,  I  came 
suddenly  upon  another  Jewish  cemetery. 

Was  it  indeed  another,  or  but  an  outlying  por- 
tion of  the  first?  It  was  evidently  another,  and  a 
more  modern  one.  The  ground  was  better  kept. 
The  monuments  were  newer.  Such  dates  as  I  had 
succeeded  in  deciphering  on  the  broken  sepulchres 
lower  down  were  all  of  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth 
centuries;  but  the  inscriptions  upon  these  bore 
reference  to  quite  recent  interments. 

I  went  on  a  few  steps  farther.  I  stopped  to 
copy  a  quaint  Italian  couplet  on  one  tomb  —  to 
gather  a  wild  forget-me-not  from  the  foot  of  another 
—  to  put  aside  a  bramble  that  trailed  across  a 
third — and  then  I  became  aware  for  the  first  time 
of  a  lady  sitting  beside  a  grave  not  a  dozen  yards 
from  the  spot  on  which  I  stood. 

I  had  believed  myself  so  utterly  alone,  and  was 
so  taken  by  surprise,  that  for  the  first  moment  I 
could  almost  have  persuaded  myself  that  she  also 
was  "of  the  stuff  that  dreams  are  made  of."  She 
was  dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  deepest  mourning; 
her  face  turned  from  me,  looking  towards  the  sunset; 
her  cheek  resting  in  the  palm  of  her  hand.  The 
grave  by  which  she  sat  was  obviously  recent.  The 
scant  herbage  round  about  had  been  lately  dis- 
turbed, and  the  marble  headstone  looked  as  if  it 
had  not  yet  undergone  a  week's  exposure  to  wind 
and  weather. 

Persuaded  that  she  had  not  observed  me,  I 
lingered  for  an  instant  looking  at  her.  Something 
in  the  grace  and  sorrow  of  her  attitude,  something 


THE  STORY  OF  SALOME.  59 

in  the  turn  of  her  head  and  the  flow  of  her  sable 
draperies,  arrested  my  attention.  Was  she  young1? 
I  fancied  so.  Did  she  mourn  a  husband? — a  lover? 
— a  parent?  I  glanced  towards  the  headstone.  It 
was  covered  with  Hebrew  characters;  so  that,  had 
I  even  been  nearer,  it  could  have  told  me  nothing. 

But  I  felt  that  I  had  no  right  to  stand  there,  a 
spectator  of  her  sorrow,  an  intruder  on  her  privacy. 
I  proceeded  to  move  noiselessly  away.  At  that 
moment  she  turned  and  looked  at  me. 

It  was  Salome. 

Salome,  pale  and  worn  as  from  some  deep  and 
wasting  grief,  but  more  beautiful,  if  that  could  be, 
than  ever.  Beautiful,  with  a  still  more  spiritual 
beauty  than  of  old;  with  cheeks  so  wan,  and  eyes 
so  unutterably  bright  and  solemn,  that  my  very 
heart  seemed  to  stand  still  as  I  looked  upon  them. 
For  one  second  I  paused,  half  fancying,  half  hoping 
that  there  was  recognition  in  her  glance;  then,  not 
daring  to  look  or  linger  longer,  turned  away. 
When  I  had  gone  far  enough  to  do  so  without  dis- 
courtesy, I  stopped  and  looked  back.  She  had 
resumed  her  former  attitude,  and  was  gazing  over 
towards  Venice  and  the  setting  sun.  The  stone  by 
which  she  watched  was  not  more  motionless. 

The  sun  went  down  in  glory.  The  last  flush 
faded  from  the  domes  and  bell-towers  of  Venice; 
the  northward  peaks  changed  from  rose  to  purple, 
from  gold  to  grey;  a  scarcely  perceptible  film  of 
mist  became  all  at  once  visible  upon  the  surface  of 
the  Lagune;  and  overhead,  the  first  star  trembled 
into  light.     I  waited  and  watched  till  the  shadows 


60  THE  STORY  OF  SALOME. 

had  so  deepened  that  I  could  no  longer  distinguish 
one  distant  object  from  another.  Was  that  the  spot? 
Was  she  still  there?  Was  she  moving1?  Was  she 
gone?  I  could  not  tell.  The  more  I  looked,  the 
more  uncertain  I  became.  Then,  fearing  to  miss 
my  way  in  the  fast-gathering  twilight,  I  struck 
down  towards  the  water's  edge  and  made  for  the 
point  at  which  I  had  landed. 

I  found  my  gondolier  fast  asleep,  with  his  head 
on  a  cushion  and  his  bit  of  gondola-carpet  thrown 
over  him  for  a  counterpane.  I  asked  if  he  had  seen 
any  other  boat  put  off  from  the  Lido  since  I  left? 
He  rubbed  his  eyes,  started  up,  and  was  awake  in 
a  moment. 

"Per  Bacco,  signore,  I  have  been  asleep,"  he 
said  apologetically;  "I  have  seen  nothing." 

"Did  you  observe  any  other  boat  moored  here- 
abouts when  we  landed?" 

"None,  signore." 

"And  you  have  seen  nothing  of  a  lady  in 
black?" 

He  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Consola/evi,  signore,"  he  said,  archly;  "she  will 
come  to-morrow." 

Then,  seeing  me  look  grave,  he  touched  his  cap, 
and  with  a  gentle  "Scusate,  signore,"  took  his  place 
at  the  stern,  and  there  waited.  I  bade  him  row 
to  my  hotel;  and  then,  leaning  dreamily  back, 
folded  my  arms,  closed  my  eyes,  and  thought  of 
Salome. 

How  lovely  she  was!  How  infinitely  more 
lovely  than  even  my  first  remembrance  of  her!   How 


THE  STORY  OF  SALOME.  6 1 

was  it  that  I  had  not  admired  her  more  that  day  in 
the  Merceria?  Was  I  blind,  or  had  she  become  in- 
deed more  beautiful?  It  was  a  sad  and  strange  place 
in  which  to  meet  her  again.  By  whose  grave  was 
she  watching?  By  her  father's1?  Yes,  surely  by  her 
father's.  He  was  an  old  man  when  I  saw  him,  and 
in  the  course  of  nature  had  not  long  to  live.  He 
was  dead:  hence  my  unavailing  search  in  the  Mer- 
ceria.  He  was  dead.  His  shop  was  let  to  another 
occupant.  His  stock-in-trade  was  sold  and  dis- 
persed. 

And  Salome — was  she  left  alone?  Had  she  no 
mother? — no  brother? — no  lover?  Would  her  eyes 
have  had  that  look  of  speechless  woe  in  them  if 
she  had  any  very  near  or  dear  tie  left  on  earth? 
Then  I  thought  of  Coventry  Tumour,  and  his  ap- 
proaching marriage.  Had  he  ever  really  loved  her? 
I  doubted  it.  "True  love,"  saith  an  old  song,  "can 
ne'er  forget;"  but  he  had  forgotten,  as  though  the 
past  had  been  a  dream.  And  yet  he  was  in  earnest 
while  it  lasted — would  have  risked  all  for  her  sake, 
if  she  would  have  listened  to  him.  Ah,  if  she  had 
listened  to  him! 

And  then  I  remembered  that  he  had  never  told 
me  the  particulars  of  that  affair.  Did  she  herself 
reject  him,  or  did  he  lay  his  suit  before  her  father? 
And  was  he  rejected  only  because  he  was  a  Christian? 
I  had  never  cared  to  ask  these  things  while  we  were 
together;  but  now  I  would  have  given  the  best  hun- 
ter in  my  stables  to  know  every  minute  detail  con- 
nected with  the  matter. 

Pondering  thus,  travelling  over  the  same  ground 


62  THE  STORY  OF  SALOME. 

again  and  again,  wondering  whether  she  remembered 
me,  whether  she  was  poor,  whether  she  was,  indeed, 
alone  in  the  world,  how  long  the  old  man  had 
been  dead,  and  a  hundred  other  things  of  the  same 
kind, — I  scarcely  noticed  how  the  watery  miles 
glided  past,  or  how  the  night  closed  in.  One  ques- 
tion, however,  recurred  oftener  than  any  other: 
How  was  I  to  see  her  again? 

I  arrived  at  my  hotel;  I  dined  at  the  table  d'hote; 
I  strolled  out  after  dinner  to  my  favourite  cafe  in 
the  piazza;  I  dropped  in  for  half  an  hour  at  the  Fe- 
nice,  and  heard  one  act  of  an  extremely  poor  opera; 
I  came  home  restless,  uneasy,  wakeful;  and  sitting 
for  hours  before  my  bedroom  fire,  asked  myself  the 
same  perpetual  question — How  was  I  to  see  her 
again  ? 

Fairly  tired  out  at  last,  I  fell  asleep  in  my 
chair,  and  when  I  awoke  the  sun  was  shining  upon 
my  window. 

I  started  to  my  feet.  I  had  it  now.  It  flashed 
upon  me,  as  if  it  came  with  the  sunlight.  I  had 
but  to  go  again  to  the  cemetery,  copy  the  inscrip- 
tion upon  the  old  man's  tomb,  ask  my  learned 
friend,  Professor  Nicolai  of  Padua,  to  translate  it 
for  me,  and  then,  once  in  possession  of  names  and 
dates,  the  rest  would  be  easy. 

In  less  than  an  hour,  I  was  once  more  on  my 
way  to  the  Lido. 

I  took  a  rubbing  of  the  stone.  It  was  the 
quickest  way,  and  the  surest;  for  I  knew  that  in 
Hebrew  everything  depended   on  the    pointing  of 


THE   STORY   OF   SALOME.  63 

the  characters,  and  I  feared  to  trust  my  own  untu- 
tored skill. 

This  done,  I  hastened  back,  wrote  my  letter  to 
the  professor,  and  despatched  both  letter  and  rub- 
bing by  the  midday  train. 

The  professor  was  not  a  prompt  man.  On  the 
contrary,  he  was  a  pre-eminently  slow  man;  dreamy, 
indolent,  buried  in  Oriental  lore.  From  any  other 
correspondent  one  might  have  looked  for  a  reply  in 
the  course  of  the  morrow;  but  from  Nicolai  of 
Padua  it  would  have  been  folly  to  expect  one 
under  two  or  three  days.  And  in  the  meanwhile? 
Well,  in  the  meanwhile  there  were  churches  and 
palaces  to  be  seen,  sketches  to  be  made,  letters  of 
introduction  to  be  delivered.  It  was,  at  all  events, 
of  no  use  to  be  impatient. 

And  yet  I  was  impatient — so  impatient  that  I 
could  neither  sketch,  nor  read,  nor  sit  still  for  ten 
minutes  together.  Possessed  by  an  uncontrollable 
restlessness,  I  wandered  from  gallery  to  gallery,  from 
palace  to  palace,  from  church  to  church.  The  im- 
prisonment of  even  a  gondola  was  irksome  to  me. 
I  was,  as  it  were,  impelled  to  be  moving  and  doing; 
and  even  so,  the  day  seemed  endless. 

The  next  was  even  worse.  There  was  just  the 
possibility  of  a  reply  from  Padua,  and  the  know- 
ledge of  that  possibility  unsettled  me  for  the  day. 
Having  watched  and  waited  for  every  post  from 
eight  to  four,  I  went  down  to  the  traghetto  of  St. 
Mark's,  and  was  there  hailed  by  my  accustomed 
gondolier. 

He  touched  his  cap  and  waited  for  orders. 


64  THE  STORY  OF  SALOME. 

"Where  to,  signore1?"  he  asked,  finding  that  I 
remained  silent. 

"To  the  Lido." 

It  was  an  irresistible  temptation,  and  I  yielded 
to  it;  but  I  yielded  in  opposition  to  my  judgment. 
I  knew  that  I  ought  not  to  haunt  the  place.  I  had 
resolved  that  I  would  not.     And  yet  I  went. 

Going  along,  I  told  myself  that  I  had  only  come 
to  reconnoitre.  It  was  not  unlikely  that  she  might 
be  going  to  the  same  spot  about  the  same  hour  as 
before;  and  in  that  case  I  might  overtake  her 
gondola  by  the  way,  or  find  it  moored  somewhere 
along  the  shore.  At  all  events,  I  was  determined 
not  to  land.  But  we  met  no  gondola  beyond  San 
Pietro  Castello;  saw  no  sign  of  one  along  the  shore. 
The  afternoon  was  far  advanced;  the  sun  was  near 
going  down;  we  had  the  Lagune  and  the  Lido  to 
ourselves. 

My  boatman  made  for  the  same  landing-place, 
and  moored  his  gondola  to  the  same  stake  as  be- 
fore. He  took  it  for  granted  that  I  meant  to  land; 
and  I  landed.  After  all,  however,  it  was  evident 
that  Salome  could  not  be  there,  in  which  case  I 
was  guilty  of  no  intrusion.  I  might  stroll  in  the 
direction  of  the  cemetery,  taking  care  to  avoid  her, 
if  she  were  anywhere  about,  and  keeping  well  away 
from  that  part  where  I  had  last  seen  her.  So  I 
broke  another  resolve,  and  went  up  towards  the  top 
of  the  Lido.  Again  I  came  to  the  salt  pools  and 
the  reeds;  again  stood  with  the  sea  upon  my  left 
hand  and  the  Lagune  upon  my  right,  and  the  end- 
less sandbank  reaching  on  for  miles  between  the 


THE  STORY   OF   SALOME.  65 

two.  Yonder  lay  the  new  cemetery.  Standing 
thus  I  overlooked  every  foot  of  the  ground.  I 
could  even  distinguish  the  headstone  of  which  I 
had  taken  a  rubbing  the  morning  before.  There 
was  no  living  thing  in  sight.  I  was,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, as  utterly  alone  as  Enoch  Arden  on  his 
desert  island. 

Then  I  strolled  on  a  little  nearer  and  a  little 
nearer  still;  and  then,  contrary  to  all  my  determina- 
tions, I  found  myself  standing  upon  the  very  spot, 
beside  the  very  grave,  which  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  on  no  account  to  approach. 

The  sun  was  now  just  going  down — had  gone 
down,  indeed,  behind  a  bank  of  golden-edged 
cumuli — and  was  flooding  earth,  sea,  and  sky  with 
crimson.  It  was  at  this  hour  that  I  saw  her.  It 
was  upon  this  spot  that  she  was  sitting.  A  few 
scant  blades  of  grass  had  sprung  up  here  and  there 
upon  the  grave.  Her  dress  must  have  touched  them 
as  she  sat  there — her  dress — perhaps  her  hand.  I 
gathered  one,  and  laid  it  carefully  between  the  leaves 
of  my  note-book. 

At  last  I  turned  to  go,  and,  turning,  met  her  face 
to  face! 

She  was  distant  about  six  yards,  and  advancing 
slowly  towards  the  spot  on  which  I  was  standing. 
Her  head  drooped  slightly  forward;  her  hands  were 
clasped  together;  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
ground.  It  was  the  attitude  of  a  nun.  Startled, 
confused,  scarcely  knowing  what  I  did,  I  took  off 
my  hat,  and  drew  aside  to  let  her  pass. 

She  looked  up — hesitated — stood  still — gazed  at 

Tlie  Black  Forest.  5 


66  THE  STORY  OF   SALOME. 

me  with  a  strange,  steadfast,  mournful  expression- 
then  dropped  her  eyes  again,  passed  me  without 
another  glance,  and  resumed  her  former  place  and 
attitude  beside  her  father's  grave. 

I  turned  away.  I  would  have  given  worlds  to 
speak  to  her;  but  I  had  not  dared,  and  the  oppor- 
tunity was  gone.  Yet  I  might  have  spoken.  She 
looked  at  me — looked  at  me  with  so  strange  and 
piteous  an  expression  in  her  eyes — continued  look- 
ing at  me  as  long  as  one  might  have  counted  five.... 
I  might  have  spoken.  I  surely  might  have  spoken! 
And  now — ah!  now  it  was  impossible.  She  had 
fallen  into  the  old  thoughtful  attitude,  with  her 
cheek  resting  on  her  hand.  Her  thoughts  were  far 
away.     She  had  forgotten  my  very  presence. 

I  went  back  to  the  shore,  more  disturbed  and 
uneasy  than  ever.  I  spent  all  the  remaining  day- 
light in  rowing  up  and  down  the  margin  of  the 
Lido,  looking  for  her  gondola — hoping,  at  all  events, 
to  see  her  put  off— to  follow  her,  perhaps,  across 
the  waste  of  waters.  But.  the  dusk  came  quickly  on, 
and  then  darkness;  and  I  left  at  last  without  having 
seen  any  farther  sign  or  token  of  her  presence. 

Lying  awake  that  night,  tossing  uneasily  upon 
my  bed,  and  thinking  over  the  incidents  of  the  last 
few  days,  I  found  myself  perpetually  recurring  to 
that  long,  steady,  sorrowful  gaze  which  she  fixed 
upon  me  in  the  cemetery.  The  more  I  thought  of 
it,  the  more  I  seemed  to  feel  that  there  was  in  it 
some  deeper  meaning  than  I,  in  my  confusion,  had 
observed  at  the  time.  It  was  such  a  strange  look — 
a  look  almost  of  entreaty,  of  asking  for  help  or 


THE  STORY   OF  SALOME.  67. 

sympathy;  like  the  dumb  appeal  in  the  eyes  of  a 
sick  animal.  Could  this  really  be?  What,  after  all, 
more  possible  than  that,  left  alone  in  the  world — 
with,  perhaps,  not  a  single  male  relation  to  advise 
her — she  found  herself  in  some  position  of  present 
difficulty,  and  knew  not  where  to  turn  for  help? 
All  this  might  well  be.  She  had  even,  perhaps, 
some  instinctive  feeling  that  she  might  trust  me. 
Ah!  if  she  would  indeed  trust  me 

I  had  hoped  to  receive  my  Paduan  letter  by 
the  morning  delivery;  but  morning  and  afternoon 
went  by  as  before,  and  still  no  letter  came.  As  the 
day  began  to  decline,  I  was  again  on  my  way  to 
the  Lido;  this  time  for  the  purpose,  and  with  the 
intention,  of  speaking  to  her.  I  landed,  and  went 
direct  to  the  cemetery.  It  had  been  a  dull  day. 
Lagune  and  sky  were  both  one  uniform  leaden  grey, 
and  a  mist  hung  over  Venice. 

I  saw  her  from  the  moment  I  reached  the  upper 
ridge.  She  was  walking  to  and  fro  among  the  graves, 
like  a  stately  shadow.  I  had  felt  confident,  some- 
how, that  she  would  be  there;  and  now,  for  some 
reason  that  I  could  not  have  defined  for  my  life,  I 
felt  equally  confident  that  she  expected  me. 

Trembling  and  eager,  yet  half  dreading  the 
moment  when  she  should  discover  my  presence,  I 
hastened  on,  printing  the  loose  sand  at  every  noise- 
less step.  A  few  moments  more,  and  I  should  over- 
take her,  speak  to  her,  hear  the  music  of  her  voice 
— that  music  which  I  remembered  so  well,  though 
a  year  had  gone  by  since  I  last  heard  it.  But  how 
should  I  address  her?    What  had  I  to  say?    I  knew 

5* 


68  THE  STORY  OF  SALOME. 

not.  I  had  no  time  to  think.  I  could  only  hurry 
on  till  within  some  ten  feet  of  her  trailing  gar- 
ments; stand  still  when  she  turned,  and  uncover 
before  her  as  if  she  were  a  queen. 

She  paused  and  looked  at  me,  just  as  she  had 
paused  and  looked  at  me  the  evening  before.  With 
the  same  sorrowful  meaning  in  her  eyes;  with  even 
more  than  the  same  entreating  expression.  But  she 
waited  for  me  to  speak. 

I  did  speak.  I  cannot  recall  what  I  said;  I  only 
know  that  I  faltered  something  of  an  apology — 
mentioned  that  I  had  had  the  honour  of  meeting 
her  before,  many  months  ago;  and,  trying  to  say 
more — trying  to  express  how  thankfully  and  proudly 
I  would  devote  myself  to  any  service  however 
humble,  however  laborious,  I  failed  both  in  voice 
and  words,  and  broke  down  utterly. 

Having  come  to  a  stop,  I  looked  up  and  found 
her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  me. 

"You  are  a  Christian?"  she  said. 

A  trembling  came  upon  me  at  the  first  sound 
of  her  voice.  It  was  the  same  voice;  distinct,  me- 
lodious, scarce  louder  than  a  whisper — and  yet  it 
was  not  quite  the  same.  There  was  a  melancholy 
in  the  music,  and  if  I  may  use  a  word  which,  after 
all,  fails  to  express  my  meaning,  a  remoteness,  that 
fell  upon  my  ear  like  the  plaintive  cadence  in  an 
autumnal  wind. 

I  bent  my  head,  and  answered  that  I  was. 

She  pointed  to  the  headstone  of  which  I  had 
taken  a  rubbing  a  day  or  two  before. 

"A  Christian  soul  lies  there,"  she  said,  "laid  in 


THE   STORY   OF   SALOME.  69 

earth  without  one  Christian  prayer — with  Hebrew 
rites — in  a  Hebrew  sanctuary.  Will  you,  stranger, 
perform  an  act  of  piety  towards  the  dead?" 

"The  Signora  has  but  to  speak,"  I  said.  "All 
that  she  wishes  shall  be  done." 

"Read  one  prayer  over  this  grave;  and  trace  a 
cross  upon  this  stone." 

"I  will." 

She  thanked  me  with  a  gesture,  slightly  bowed 
her  head,  drew  her  outer  garment  more  closely 
round  her,  and  moved  away  to  a  rising  ground  at 
some  little  distance.  I  was  dismissed.  I  had  no 
excuse  for  lingering — no  right  to  prolong  the  inter- 
view—  no  business  to  remain  there  one  moment 
longer.  So  I  left  her  there,  nor  once  looked  back 
till  I  had  reached  the  last  point  from  which 
I  knew  I  should  be  able  to  see  her.  But  when 
I  turned  for  that  last  look,  she  was  no  longer  in 
sight. 

I  had  resolved  to  speak  to  her,  and  this  was  the 
result.  A  stranger  interview  never,  surely,  fell  to 
the  lot  of  man!  I  had  said  nothing  that  I  meant 
to  say — had  learnt  nothing  that  I  sought  to  know. 
With  regard  to  her  circumstances,  her  place  of 
residence,  her  very  name,  I  was  no  wiser  than  be- 
fore. And  yet  I  had,  perhaps,  no  reason  to  be 
dissatisfied.  She  had  honoured  me  with  her  con- 
fidence, and  entrusted  to  me  a  task  of  some  diffi- 
culty and  importance.  It  now  only  remained  for 
me  to  execute  that  task  as  thoroughly  and  as  quickly 
as  possible.     That  done,  I  might  fairly  hope  to  win 


70  THE   STORY   OF   SALOME. 

some  place  in  her  remembrance — by  and  by,  per- 
haps, in  her  esteem. 

Meanwhile,  the  old  question  rose  again — whose 
grave  could  it  be]  I  had  settled  this  matter  so  con- 
clusively in  my  own  mind  from  the  first,  that  I  could 
scarcely  believe  even  now  that  it  was  not  her  father's. 
Yet  that  he  should  have  died  a  secret  convert  to 
Christianity  was  incredible.  Whose  grave  could  it 
be1?  A  lover's]  A  Christian  lover's]  Alas!  it  might 
be.  Or  a  sister's]  In  either  of  these  cases,  it  was 
more  than  probable  that  Salome  was  herself  a  con- 
vert. But  I  had  no  time  to  waste  in  conjecture.  I 
must  act,  and  act  promptly. 

I  hastened  back  to  Venice  as  fast  as  my  gon- 
dolier could  row  me;  and  as  we  went  along  I  pro- 
mised myself  that  all  her  wishes  should  be  carried 
out  before  she  visited  the  spot  again.  To  secure  at 
once  the  services  of  a  clergyman  who  would  go 
with  me  to  the  Lido  at  early  dawn  and  there  read 
some  portion,  at  least,  of  the  burial  service;  and  at 
the  same  time  to  engage  a  stonemason  to  cut  the 
cross; — to  have  all  done  before  she,  or  anyone, 
should  have  approached  the  place  next  day,  was 
my  especial  object.  And  that  object  I  was  resolved 
to  carry  out,  though  I  had  to  search  Venice  through 
before  I  laid  my  head  upon  my  pillow. 

I  found  a  clergyman  without  difficulty.  He  was 
a  young  man  occupying  rooms  in  the  same  hotel, 
and  on  the  same  floor  as  myself.  I  had  met  him 
each  day  at  the  table  d'hote,  and  conversed  with  him 
once  or  twice  in  the  reading-room.  He  was  a 
North-countryman,  had  not  long  since  taken  orders, 


THE  STORY  OF  SALOME.  71 

and  was  both  gentlemanly  and  obliging.  He  pro- 
mised in  the  readiest  manner  to  do  all  that  I  re- 
quired, and  to  breakfast  with  me  at  six  next  morn- 
ing, in  order  that  we  might  reach  the  cemetery  by 
eight. 

To  find  my  stonemason,  however,  was  not  so 
easy;  and  yet  I  went  to  work  methodically  enough. 
I  began  with  the  Venetian  Directory;  then  copied  a 
list  of  stonemasons'  names  and  addresses;  then  took 
a  gondola  a  due  remi  and  started  upon  my  voyage 
of  discovery. 

But  a  night's  voyage  of  discovery  among  the 
intricate  back  canaletti  of  Venice  is  no  very  easy 
and  no  very  safe  enterprise.  Narrow,  tortuous, 
densely  populated,  often  blocked  by  huge  hay, 
wood,  and  provision  barges,  almost  wholly  un- 
lighted,  and  so  perplexingly  alike  that  no  mere 
novice  in  Venetian  topography  need  ever  hope  to 
distinguish  one  from  another,  they  baffle  the  very 
gondoliers,  and  are  a  terra  incognita  to  all  but  the 
dwellers  therein. 

I  succeeded,  however,  in  finding  three  of  the 
places  entered  on  my  list.  At  the  first  I  was  told 
that  the  workman  of  whom  I  was  in  quest  was 
working  by  the  week  somewhere  over  by  Murano, 
and  would  not  be  back  again  till  Saturday  night. 
At  the  second  and  third,  I  found  the  men  at  home, 
supping  with  their  wives  and  children  at  the  end  of 
the  day's  work;  but  neither  would  consent  to  un- 
dertake my  commission.  One,  after  a  whispered 
consultation  with  his  son,  declined  reluctantly.  The 
other  told  me  plainly  that  he  dared  not  do  it,  and 


72  THE   STORY   OF   SALOME. 

that  he  did  not  believe  I  should  find  a  stone- 
mason in  Venice  who  would  be  bolder  than  him- 
self. 

The  Jews,  he  said,  were  rich  and  powerful;  no 
longer  an  oppressed  people;  no  longer  to  be  in- 
sulted even  in  Venice  with  impunity.  To  cut  a 
Christian  cross  upon  a  Jewish  headstone  in  the 
Jewish  Cemetery,  would  be  "a  sort  of  sacrilege," 
and  punishable,  no  doubt,  by  the  law.  This  sounded 
like  truth;  so,  finding  that  my  rowers  were  by  no 
means  confident  of  their  way,  and  that  the  canaletti 
were  dark  as  the  catacombs,  I  prevailed  upon  the 
stonemason  to  sell  me  a  small  mallet  and  a  couple 
of  chisels,  and  made  up  my  mind  to  commit  the 
sacrilege  myself. 

With  this  single  exception,  all  was  done  next 
morning  as  I  had  planned  to  do  it.  My  new  ac- 
quaintance breakfasted  with  me,  accompanied  me  to 
the  Lido,  read  such  portions  of  the  burial  service 
as  seemed  proper  to  him,  and  then,  having  business 
in  Venice,  left  me  to  my  task.  It  was  by  no  means 
an  easy  one.  To  a  skilled  hand  it  would  have  been, 
perhaps,  the  work  of  half-an-hour;  but  it  was  my 
first  effort,  and  rude  as  the  thing  was — a  mere 
grooved  attempt  at  a  Latin  cross,  about  two  inches 
and  a  half  in  length,  cut  close  down  at  the  bottom 
of  the  stone,  where  it  could  be  easily  concealed  by 
a  little  piling  of  the  sand — it  took  me  nearly  four 
hours  to  complete.  While  I  was  at  work,  the  dull 
grey  morning  grew  duller  and  greyer;  a  thick  sea- 
fog  drove  up  from  the  Adriatic;  and  a  low  moaning 
wind  came  and  went  like  the  echo  of  a  distant  re- 


THE   STORY    OF   SALOME.  73 

quiem.  More  than  once  I  started,  believing  that 
she  had  surprised  me  there — fancying  I  saw  the 
passing  of  a  shadow — heard  the  rustling  of  a  gar- 
ment— the  breathing  of  a  sigh.  But  no.  The 
mists  and  the  moaning  wind  deceived  me.  I  was 
alone. 

When  at  length  I  got  back  to  my  hotel,  it  was, 
just  two  o'clock.  The  hall-porter  put  a  letter  into 
my  hand  as  I  passed  through.  One  glance  at  that 
crabbed  superscription  was  enough.  It  was  from 
Padua.  I  hastened  to  my  room,  tore  open  the  en- 
velope, and  read  these  words: — 

"Caro  Signore, — The  rubbing  you  send  is 
neither  ancient  nor  curious,  as  I  fear  you  suppose 
it  to  be.  It  is  a  thing  of  yesterday.  It  merely  re- 
cords that  one  Salome,  the  only  and  beloved  child 
of  a  certain  Isaac  Da  Costa,  died  last  Autumn  on 
the  eighteenth  of  October,  aged  twenty-one  years, 
and  that  by  the  said  Isaac  Da  Costa  this  monument 
is  erected  to  the  memory  of  her  virtues  and  his 
grief. 

"I  pray  you,  caro  signore,  to  receive  the  assur- 
ance of  my  sincere  esteem. 

"Nicolo  Nicolai." 


The  letter  dropped  from  my  hand.  I  seemed 
to  have  read  without  understanding  it.  I  picked 
it  up;  went  through  it  again,  word  by  word;  sat 
down;  rose  up;  took  a  turn  across  the  room;  felt 
confused,  bewildered,  incredulous, 


74  THE  STORY  OF  SALOME. 

Could  there,  then,  be  two  Salomes?  or  was  there 
some  radical  and  extraordinary  mistake1? 

I  hesitated;  I  knew  not  what  to  do.  Should  I 
go  down  to  the  Merceria,  and  see  whether  the  name 
of  Da  Costa  was  known  in  the  quartier?  Or  find 
out  the  registrar  of  births  and  deaths  for  the  Jewish 
district?  Or  call  upon  the  principal  rabbi,  and 
learn  from  him  who  this  second  Salome  had  been, 
and  in  what  degree  of  relationship  she  stood  to- 
wards the  Salome  whom  I  knew?  I  decided  upon 
the  last  course.  The  chief  rabbi's  address  was 
easily  obtained.  He  lived  in  an  ancient  house  on 
the  Giudecca,  and  there  I  found  him  —  a  grave, 
stately  old  man,  with  a  grizzled  beard  reaching  nearly 
to  his  waist. 

I  introduced  myself  and  stated  my  business.  I 
came  to  ask  if  he  could  give  me  any  information 
respecting  the  late  Salome  da  Costa  who  died 
on  the  1 8th  of  October  last,  and  was  buried  on  the 
Lido. 

The  rabbi  replied  that  he  had  no  doubt  he  could 
give  me  any  information  I  desired,  for  he  had  known 
the  lady  personally,  and  was  the  intimate  friend  of 
her  father. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  I  asked,  "whether  she  had 
any  dear  friend  or  female  relative  of  the  same  name 
—Salome?" 

The  rabbi  shook  his  head. 

"I  think  not,"  he  said.  "I  remember  no  other 
maiden  of  that  name." 

"Pardon  me,  but  I  know  there  was  another,"  I 
replied.    "There  was  a  very  beautiful  Salome  living 


THE  STORY   OF   SALOME.  75 

in  the  Merceria  when  I  was  last  in  Venice,  just  this 
time  last  year." 

"Salome  da  Costa  was  very  fair,"  said  the  rabbi; 
"and  she  dwelt  with  her  father  in  the  Merceria. 
Since  her  death,  he  hath  removed  to  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  Rialto." 

"This  Salome's  father  was  a  dealer  in  Oriental 
goods,"  I  said,  hastily. 

"Isaac  da  Costa  is  a  dealer  in  Oriental  goods," 
replied  the  old  man  very  gently.  "We  are  speaking, 
my  son,  of  the  same  persons." 

"Impossible!" 

He  shook  his  head  again. 

"But  she  lives!"  I  exclaimed,  becoming  greatly 
agitated.  "  She  lives.  I  have  seen  her.  I  have  spoken 
to  her.    I  saw  her  only  last  evening." 

"Nay,"  he  said,  compassionately,  "this  is 
some  dream.  She  of  whom  you  speak  is  indeed 
no  more." 

"I  saw  her  only  last  evening,"  I  repeated. 

"Where  did  you  suppose  you  beheld  her1?" 

"On  the  Lido." 

"On  the  Lido1?" 

"And  she  spoke  to  me.  I  heard  her  voice 
■ — heard  it  as  distinctly  as  I  hear  my  own  at  this 
moment." 

The  rabbi  stroked  his  beard  thoughtfully,  and 
looked  at  me.  "You  think  you  heard  her  voice!" 
he  ejaculated.   "That  is  strange.   What  said  she?" 

I  was  about  to  answer.  I  checked  myself — a 
sudden  thought  flashed  upon  me — I  trembled  from 
head  to  foot. 


7  6  THE   STORY   OF   SALOME. 

"Have  you — have  you  any  reason  for  supposing 
that  she  died  a  Christian?"  I  faltered. 

The  old  man  started  and  changed  colour. 

"  I — I — that  is  a  strange  question,"  he  stammered. 
"Why  do  you  ask  it?" 

"Yes  or  no?"  I  cried  wildly.     "Yes  or  no?" 

He  frowned,  looked  down,  hesitated. 

"I  admit,"  he  said,  after  a  moment  or  two, — "I 
admit  that  I  may  have  heard  something  tending 
that  way.  It  may  be  that  the  maiden  cherished 
some  secret  doubt.  Yet  she  was  no  professed 
Christian." 

"Laid  in  earth  ivithont  one  Christian  prayer ;  with 
Hebreiv  rites;  in  a  Hebrew  sanctuary!"  I  repeated 
to  myself. 

"But  I  marvel  how  you  come  to  have  heard  of 
this,"  continued  the  rabbi.  "It  was  known  only  to 
her  father  and  myself." 

"Sir,"  I  said  solemnly,  "I  know  now  that  Salome 
da  Costa  is  dead;  I  have  seen  her  spirit  thrice, 
haunting  the  spot  where  .  .  .  ." 

My  voice  broke.     I  could  not  utter  the  words. 

"Last  evening  at  sunset,"  I  resumed,  "was  the 
third  time.  Never  doubting  that — that  I  indeed  be- 
held her  in  the  flesh,  I  spoke  to  her.  She  answered 
me.     She — she  told  me  this." 

The  rabbi  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
so  remained  for  some  time,  lost  in  meditation. 
"Young  man,"  he  said  at  length,  "your  story  is 
strange,  and  you  bring  strange  evidence  to  bear 
upon  it.     It  may  be   as  you   say;  it  may  be  that 


'THE   STORY   OF   SALOME.  77 

you  are  the  dupe  of  some  waking  dream — I  know 
not." 

He  knew  not;  but  I  ...  Ah!  I  knew  only  too 
well.  I  knew  now  why  she  had  appeared  to  me 
clothed  with  such  unearthly  beauty.  I  understood 
now  that  look  of  dumb  entreaty  in  her  eyes — that 
tone  of  strange  remoteness  in  her  voice.  The  sweet 
soul  could  not  rest  amid  the  dust  of  its  kinsfolk, 
"unhousel'd,  unanointed,  unanealed,"  lacking  even 
"one  Christian  prayer"  above  its  grave.  And 
now — was  it  all  over1?  Should  I  never  see  her 
more? 

Never — ah!  never.  How  I  haunted  the  Lido 
at  sunset  for  many  a  month,  till  Spring  had  blos- 
somed into  Autumn,  and  Autumn  had  ripened  into 
Summer;  how  I  wandered  back  to  Venice  year  after 
year  at  the  same  season,  while  yet  any  vestige  of 
that  wild  hope  remained  alive;  how  my  heart  has 
never  throbbed,  my  pulse  never  leaped,  for  love  of 
mortal  woman  since  that  time  —  are  details  into 
which  I  need  not  enter  here.  Enough  that  I  watched 
and  waited;  but  that  her  gracious  spirit  appeared 
to  me  no  more.  I  wait  still,  but  I  watch  no  longer. 
I  know  now  that  our  place  of  meeting  will  not 
be  here. 


IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 


IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 


The  things  of  which  I  write  befell — let  me  see, 
some  fifteen  or  eighteen  years  ago.  I  was  not 
young  then;  I  am  not  old  now.  Perhaps  I  was 
about  thirty- two;  but  I  do  not  know  my  age  very 
exactly,  and  I  cannot  be  certain  to  a  year  or  two 
one  way  or  the  other. 

My  manner  of  life  at  that  time  was  desultory 
and  unsettled.  I  had  a  sorrow — no  matter  of  what 
kind — and  I  took  to  rambling  about  Europe;  not 
certainly  in  the  hope  of  forgetting  it,  for  I  had  no 
wish  to  forget,  but  because  of  the  restlessness  that 
made  one  place  after  another  triste  and  intolerable 
to  me. 

It  was  change  of  place,  however,  and  not  ex- 
citement, that  I  sought.  I  kept  almost  entirely 
aloof  from  great  cities,  Spas,  and  beaten  tracks, 
and  preferred  for  the  most  part  to  explore  districts 
where  travellers  and  foreigners  rarely  penetrated. 

Such  a  district  at  that  time  was  the  Upper 
Rhine.  I  was  traversing  it  that  particular  Summer 
for  the  first  time,  and  on  foot;  and  I  had  set  myself 
to  trace  the  course  of  the  river  from  its  source  in 
the  great  Rhine  glacier  to  its  fall  at  Schaffhausen. 
Having  done  this,  however,  I  was  unwilling  to  part 

The  Black  Forest.  6 


82  IN  THE   CONFESSIONAL. 

company  with  the  noble  river;  so  I  decided  to 
follow  it  yet  a  few  miles  farther — perhaps  as  far  as 
Mayence,  but  at  all  events  as  far  as  Basle. 

And  now  began,  if  not  the  finest,  certainly  not 
the  least  charming  part  of  my  journey.  Here,  it  is 
true,  were  neither  Alps,  nor  glaciers,  nor  ruined 
castles  perched  on  inaccessible  crags;  but  my  way 
lay  through  a  smiling  country,  studded  with  pic- 
turesque hamlets,  and  beside  a  bright  river,  hurrying 
along  over  swirling  rapids,  and  under  the  dark 
arches  of  antique  covered  bridges,  and  between  hill- 
sides garlanded  with  vines. 

It  was  towards  the  middle  of  a  long  day's  walk 
among  such  scenes  as  these  that  I  came  to  Rhein- 
felden,  a  small  place  on  the  left  bank  of  the  river, 
about  fourteen  miles  above  Basle. 

As  I  came  down  the  white  road  in  the  blinding 
sunshine,  with  the  vines  on  either  hand,  I  saw  the 
town  lying  low  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  Rhine. 
It  was  an  old  walled  town,  enclosed  on  the  land 
side  and  open  to  the  liver,  the  houses  going  sheer 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  with  flights  of  slimy  steps 
worn  smooth  by  the  wash  of  the  current,  and  over- 
hanging eaves,  and  little  built-out  rooms  with  pent- 
house roofs,  supported  from  below  by  jutting  piles 
black  with  age  and  tapestried  with  water-weeds. 
The  stunted  towers  of  a  couple  of  churches  stood 
up  from  amid  the  brown  and  tawny  roofs  within 
the  walls. 

Beyond  the  town,  height  above  height,  stretched 
a  distance  of  wooded  hills.  The  old  covered  bridge, 
divided  by  a  bit  of  rocky  island  in  the  middle  of 


IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL.  83 

the  stream,  led  from  bank  to  bank — from  Germany 
to  Switzerland.  The  town  was  in  Switzerland;  I,  look- 
ing towards  it  from  the  road,  stood  on  Baden  ter- 
ritory; the  river  ran  sparkling  and  foaming  between. 

I  crossed,  and  found  the  place  all  alive  in  an- 
ticipation of  a  Kermess,  or  fair,  that  was  to  be  held 
there  the  next  day  but  one.  The  townsfolk  were 
all  out  in  the  streets  or  standing  about  their  doors; 
and  there  were  carpenters  hard  at  work  knocking 
up  rows  of  wooden  stands  and  stalls  the  whole 
length  of  the  principal  thoroughfare.  Shop-signs  in 
open-work  of  wrought  iron  hung  over  the  doors. 
A  runlet  of  sparkling  water  babbled  down  a  stone 
channel  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  At  almost 
every  other  house  (to  judge  by  the  rows  of  tarnished 
watches  hanging  in  the  dingy  parlour  windows), 
there  lived  a  watchmaker;  and  presently  I  came  to 
a  fountain — a  regular  Swiss  fountain,  spouting  water 
from  four  ornamental  pipes,  and  surmounted  by  the 
usual  armed  knight  in  old  grey  stone. 

As  I  rambled  on  thus  (looking  for  an  inn,  but 
seeing  none),  I  suddenly  found  that  I  had  reached 
the  end  of  the  street,  and  with  it  the  limit  of  the 
town  on  this  side.  Before  me  rose  a  lofty,  pictu- 
resque old  gate-tower,  with  a  tiled  roof  and  a  little 
window  over  the  archway;  and  there  was  a  peep  of 
green  grass  and  golden  sunshine  beyond.  The 
town  walls  (sixty  or  seventy  feet  in  height,  and 
curiously  roofed  with  a  sort  of  projecting  shed  on 
the  inner  side)  curved  away  to  right  and  left,  un- 
changed   since    the   Middle  Ages.      A    rude    wain, 


84  IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

laden  with  clover  and  drawn  by  mild-eyed,  cream- 
coloured  oxen,  stood  close  by  in  the  shade. 

I  passed  out  through  the  gloom  of  the  archway 
into  the  sunny  space  beyond.  The  moat  outside 
the  walls  was  bridged  over  and  filled  in — a  green 
ravine  of  grasses  and  wild-flowers.  A  stork  had 
built  its  nest  on  the  roof  of  the  gate-tower.  The 
cicalas  shrilled  in  the  grass.  The  shadows  lay 
sleeping  under  the  trees,  and  a  family  of  cocks  and 
hens  went  plodding  inquisitively  to  and  fro  among 
the  cabbages  in  the  adjacent  field.  Just  beyond 
the  moat,  with  only  this  field  between,  stood  a  little 
solitary  church  —  a  church  with  a  wooden  porch, 
and  a  quaint,  bright-red  steeple,  and  a  churchyard 
like  a  rose-garden,  full  of  colour  and  perfume,  and 
scattered  over  with  iron  crosses  wreathed  with  im- 
mortelles. 

The  churchyard  gate  and  the  church  door  stood 
open.  I  went  in.  All  was  clean,  and  simple,  and 
very  poor.  The  walls  were  whitewashed;  the  floor 
was  laid  with  red  bricks;  the  roof  raftered.  A  tiny 
confessional  like  a  sentry-box  stood  in  one  corner; 
the  font  was  covered  with  a  lid  like  a  wooden 
steeple;  and  over  the  altar,  upon  which  stood  a 
pair  of  battered  brass  candlesticks  and  two  vases 
of  artificial  flowers,  hung  a  daub  of  the  Holy  Family, 
in  oils. 

All  here  was  so  cool,  so  quiet,  that  I  sat  down 
for  a  few  moments  and  rested.  Presently  an  old 
peasant  woman  trudged  up  the  church-path  with  a 
basket  of  vegetables  on  her  head.     Having  set  this 


IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL.  85 

down  in  the  porch,  she  came  in,  knelt  before  the 
altar,  said  her  simple  prayers,  and  went  her  way. 

Was  it  not  time  for  me  also  to  go  my  way?  I 
looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  past  four  o'clock,  and 
I  had  not  yet  found  a  lodging  for  the  night. 

I  got  up,  somewhat  unwillingly;  but,  attracted 
by  a  tablet  near  the  altar,  crossed  over  to  look  at 
it  before  leaving  the  church.  It  was  a  very  small 
slab,  and  bore  a  very  brief  German  inscription  to 
this  effect: — 

To  the  Sacred  Memory 

of 

THE  REVEREND  PERE  CHESSEZ, 

For  twenty  years  the  beloved  Pastor  of  this  Parish. 
Died  April  16th,  1825.     Aged  44. 

HE  LIVED  A  SAINT  ;  HE  DIED  A  MARTYR. 

I  read  it  over  twice,  wondering  idly  what  story 
was  wrapped  up  in  the  concluding  line.  Then, 
prompted  by  a  childish  curiosity,  I  went  up  to 
examine  the  confessional. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  about  the  size  of  a 
sentry-box,  and  was  painted  to  imitate  old  dark  oak. 
On  the  one  side  was  a  narrow  door  with  a  black 
handle,  on  the  other  a  little  opening  like  a  ticket- 
taker's  window,  closed  on  the  inside  by  a  faded 
green  curtain. 

I  know  not  what  foolish  fancy  possessed  me,  but, 
almost  without  considering  what  I  was  doing,  I  turned 
the  handle  and    opened  the   door.      Opened  it — 


86  IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

peeped  in — found  the  priest  sitting  in  his  place— ► 
started  back  as  if  I  had  been  shot — and  stammered 
an  unintelligible  apology. 

"I — I  beg  a  thousand  pardons,"  I  exclaimed.  "I 
had  no  idea — seeing  the  church  empty " 

He  was  sitting  with  averted  face,  and  clasped 
hands  lying  idly  in  his  lap— a  tall,  gaunt  man, 
dressed  in  a  black  soutane.  When  I  paused,  and 
not  till  then,  he  slowly,  very  slowly,  turned  his  head, 
and  looked  me  in  the  face. 

The  light  inside  the  confessional  was  so  dim  that 
I  could  not  see  his  features  very  plainly.  I  only  ob- 
served that  his  eyes  were  large,  and  bright,  and  wild- 
looking,  like  the  eyes  of  some  fierce  animal,  and 
that  his  face,  with  the  reflection  of  the  green  curtain 
upon  it,  looked  lividly  pale. 

For  a  moment  we  remained  thus,  gazing  at  each 
other,  as  if  fascinated.  Then,  finding  that  he  made 
no  reply,  but  only  stared  at  me  with  those  strange 
eyes,  I  stepped  hastily  back,  shut  the  door  without 
another  word,  and  hurried  out  of  the  church. 

I  was  very  much  disturbed  by  this  little  incident; 
more  disturbed,  in  truth,  than  seemed  reasonable, 
for  my  nerves  for  the  moment  were  shaken.  Never, 
I  told  myself,  never  while  I  lived  could  I  forget  that 
fixed  attitude  and  stony  face,  or  the  glare  of  those 
terrible  eyes.  What  was  the  man's  history?  Of 
what  secret  despair,  of  what  life-long  remorse,  of 
what  wild  unsatisfied  longings  was  he  the  victim? 
I  felt  I  could  not  rest  till  I  had  learned  something 
of  his  past  life. 

Full  of  these  thoughts,  I  went  on  quickly   into 


IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL.  87 

the  town,  half  running  across  the  field,  and  never 
looking  back.  Once  past  the  gateway  and  inside 
the  walls,  I  breathed  more  freely.  The  wain  was 
still  standing  in  the  shade,  but  the  oxen  were  gone 
now,  and  two  men  were  busy  forking  out  the  clover 
into  a  little  yard  close  by.  Having  inquired  of  one 
of  these  regarding  an  inn,  and  being  directed  to  the 
Krone,  "over  against  the  Frauenkirche,"  I  made  my 
way  to  the  upper  part  of  the  town,  and  there,  at 
one  corner  of  a  forlorn,  weed-grown  market-place, 
I  found  my  hostelry. 

The  landlord,  a  sedate,  bald  man  in  spectacles, 
who,  as  I  presently  discovered,  was  not  only  an 
inn-keeper  but  a  clock-maker,  came  out  from  an 
inner  room  to  receive  me.  His  wife,  a  plump,  plea- 
sant body,  took  my  orders  for  dinner.  His  pretty 
daughter  showed  me  to  my  room.  It  was  a  large, 
low,  whitewashed  room,  with  two  lattice  windows 
overlooking  the  market-place,  two  little  beds,  covered 
with  puffy  red  eiderdowns  at  the  farther  end,  and 
an  army  of  clocks  and  ornamental  timepieces  ar- 
ranged along  every  shelf,  table,  and  chest  of  drawers 
in  the  room.  Being  left  here  to  my  meditations, 
I  sat  down  and  counted  these  companions  of  my 
solitude. 

Taking  little  and  big  together,  Dutch  clocks, 
cuckoo  clocks,  chalet  clocks,  skeleton  clocks,  and 
pendxdes  in  ormolu,  bronze,  marble,  ebony,  and  ala- 
baster cases,  there  were  exactly  thirty-two.  Twenty- 
eight  were  going  merrily.  As  no  two  among  them 
were  of  the  same  opinion  as  regarded  the  time,  and 
as  several  struck  the  quarters  as  well  as  the  hours, 


88  IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

the  consequence  was  that  one  or  other  gave  tongue 
about  every  five  minutes.  Now,  for  a  light  and 
nervous  sleeper  such  as  I  was  at  that  time,  here 
was  a  lively  prospect  for  the  night! 

Going  down-stairs  presently  with  the  hope  of 
getting  my  landlady  to  assign  me  a  quieter  room, 
I  passed  two  eight^day  clocks  on  the  landing,  and  a 
third  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The  public  room 
was  equally  well-stocked.  It  literally  bristled  with 
clocks,  one  of  which  played  a  spasmodic  version  of 
Gentle  Zitella  with  variations  every  quarter  of  an 
hour.  Here  I  found  a  little  table  prepared  by  the 
open  window,  and  a  dish  of  trout  and  a  flask  of 
country  wine  awaiting  me.  The  pretty  daughter 
waited  upon  me;  her  mother  bustled  to  and  fro  with 
the  dishes;  the  landlord  stood  by,  and  beamed  upon 
me  through  his  spectacles. 

"The  trout  were  caught  this  morning,  about  two 
miles  from  here,"  he  said,  complacently. 

"They  are  excellent,"  I  replied,  filling  him  out  a 
glass  of  wine,  and  helping  myself  to  another.  "Your 
health,  Herr  Wirth." 

"Thanks,  mein  Herr — yours." 

Just  at  this  moment  two  clocks  struck  at  oppo- 
site ends  of  the  room — one  twelve,  and  the  other 
seven.  I  ventured  to  suggest  that  mine  host  was 
tolerably  well  reminded  of  the  flight  of  time;  where- 
upon he  explained  that  his  work  lay  chiefly  in  the 
repairing  and  regulating  line,  and  that  at  that  pre- 
sent moment  he  had  no  less  than  one  hundred  and 
eighteen  clocks  of  various  sorts  and  sizes  on  the 
premises. 


IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL.  89 

"Perhaps  theHerr  Englander  is  a  light  sleeper," 
said  his  quick-witted  wife,  detecting  my  dismay. 
"If  so,  we  can  get  him  a  bed-room  elsewhere.  Not, 
perhaps,  in  the  town,  for  I  know  no  place  where  he 
would  be  as  comfortable  as  with  ourselves;  but  just 
outside  the  Friedrich's  Thor,  not  five  minutes'  walk 
from  our  door." 

I  accepted  the  offer  gratefully. 

"So  long,"  I  said,  "as  I  ensure  cleanliness  and 
quiet,  I  do  not  care  how  homely  my  lodgings 
may  be." 

"Ah,  you'll  have  both,  mein  Herr,  if  you  go 
where  my  wife  is  thinking  of,"  said  the  landlord. 
"It  is  at  the  house  of  our  pastor — the  Pere  Ches- 
sez." 

"The  Pere  Chessez!"  I  exclaimed.  "What,  the 
pastor  of  the  little  church  out  yonder?" 

"The  same,  mein  Herr." 

"But — but  surely  the  Pere  Chessez  is  dead!  I 
saw  a  tablet  to  his  memory  in  the  chancel." 

"Nay,  that  was  our  pastor's  elder  brother,"  replied 
the  landlord,  looking  grave.  "He  has  been  gone 
these  thirty  years  and  more.  His  was  a  tragical 
ending." 

But  I  was  thinking  too  much  of  the  younger 
brother  just  then  to  feel  any  curiosity  about  the 
elder;  and  I  told  myself  that  I  would  put  up  with 
the  companionship  of  any  number  of  clocks,  rather 
than  sleep  under  the  same  roof  with  that  terrible 
face  and  those  unearthly  eyes. 

"I  saw  your  pastor  just  now  in  the  church,"  I 


Q0  IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

said,  with  apparent  indifference.  "He  is  a  singular- 
looking  man." 

"He  is  too  good  for  this  world,"  said  the  land- 
lady. 

"He  is  a  saint  upon  earth!"  added  the  pretty 
Friiulein. 

"He  is  one  of  the  best  of  men,"  said,  more 
soberly,  the  husband  and  father.  "I  only  wish  he 
was  less  of  a  saint.  He  fasts,  and  prays,  and  works 
beyond  his  strength.  A  little  more  beef  and  a 
little    less    devotion   would   be    all    the    better  for 

him." 

"I  should  like  to  hear  something  more  about 
the  life  of  so  good  a  man,"  said  I,  having  by  this 
time  come  to  the  end  of  my  simple  dinner.  "Come, 
Herr  Wirth,  let  us  have  a  bottle  of  your  best,  and 
then  sit  down  and  tell  me  your  pastor's  history!" 

The  landlord  sent  his  daughter  for  a  bottle  of 
the  "green  seal,"  and,  taking  a  chair,  said: — 

"Ach  Himmel!  mein  Herr,  there  is  no  history 
to  tell.  The  good  father  has  lived  here  all  his  life. 
He  is  one  of  us.  His  father,  Johann  Chessez,  was 
a  native  of  Rheinfelden  and  kept  this'  very  inn.  He 
was  a  wealthy  farmer  and  vine-grower.  He  had 
only  those  two  sons — Nicholas,  who  took  to  the 
church  and  became  pastor  of  Feldkirche;  and  this 
one,  Matthias,  who  was  intended  to  inherit  the  busi- 
ness; but  who  also  entered  religion  after  the  death 
of  his  elder  brother,  and  is  now  pastor  of  the  same 
parish." 

"But  why  did  he  'enter  religion?'"  I  asked. 
"Was  he  in  any  way  to  blame  for  the  accident  (if 


IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL.  9 1 

It  was  an  accident)  that  caused  the  death  of  his 
elder  brother?" 

"Ah  Heavens!  no!"  exclaimed  the  landlady, 
leaning  on  the  back  of  her  husband's  chair.  "It 
was  the  shock — the  shock  that  told  so  terribly  upon 
his  poor  nerves!  He  was  but  a  lad  at  that  time, 
and  as  sensitive  as  a  girl — but  the  Herr  Englander 
does  not  know  the  story.     Go  on,  my  husband." 

So  the  landlord ,  after  a  sip  of  the  "  green  seal," 
continued:  — 

"At  the  time  my  wife  alludes  to,  mein  Herr, 
Johann  Chessez  was  still  living.  Nicholas,  the  elder 
son,  was  in  holy  orders  and  established  in  the  parish 
of  Feldkirche,  outside  the  walls;  and  Matthias,  the 
younger,  was  a  lad  of  about  fourteen  years  old,  and 
lived  with  his  father.  He  was  an  amiable  good  boy — 
pious  and  thoughtful — fonder  of  his  books  than  of 
the  business.  The  neighbour-folk  used  to  say  even 
then  that  Matthias  was  cut  out  for  a  priest,  like  his 
elder  brother.  As  for  Nicholas,  he  was  neither  more 
nor  less  than  a  saint.  Well,  mein  Herr,  at  this  time 
there  lived  on  the  other  side  of  Rheinfelden,  about 
a  mile  beyond  the  Basel  Thor,  a  farmer  named 
Caspar  Rufenacht  and  his  wife  Margaret.  Now  Cas- 
par Rufenacht  was  a  jealous,  quarrelsome  fellow; 
and  the  Frau  Margaret  was  pretty;  and  he  led  her  a 
devil  of  a  life.  It  was  said  that  he  used  to  beat 
her  when  he  had  been  drinking,  and  that  some- 
times, when  he  went  to  fair  or  market,  he  would 
lock  her  up  for  the  whole  day  in  a  room  at  the 
top  of  the  house.  Well,  this  poor,  ill-used  Frau 
Margaret — " 


0,2  IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

"Tut,  tut,  my  man,"  interrupted  the  landlady. 
"The  Frau  Margaret  was  a  light  one!" 

"Peace,  wife!  Shall  we  speak  hard  words  of  the 
dead1?  The  Frau  Margaret  was  young  and  pretty, 
and  a  flirt;  and  she  had  a  bad  husband,  who  left 
her  too  much  alone." 

The  landlady  pursed  up  her  lips  and  shook  her 
head,  as  the  best  of  women  will  do  when  the  cha- 
racter of  another  woman  is  under  discussion.  The 
innkeeper  went  on. 

"Well,  mein  Herr,  to  cut  a  long  story  short, 
after  having  been  jealous  first  of  one  and  then  of 
another,  Caspar  Rufenacht  became  furious  about  a 
certain  German,  a  Badener  named  Schmidt,  living 
on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  Rhine.  I  remember 
the  man  quite  well — a  handsome,  merry  fellow,  and 
no  saint;  just  the  sort  to  make  mischief  between 
man  and  wife.  Well,  Caspar  Rufenacht  swore  a 
great  oath  that,  cost  what  it  might,  he  would  come 
at  the  truth  about  his  wife  and  Schmidt;  so  he  laid 
all  manner  of  plots  to  surprise  them — waylaid  the 
Frau  Margaret  in  her  walks;  followed  her  at  a  dis- 
tance when  she  went  to  church;  came  home  at  un- 
expected hours;  and  played  the  spy  as  if  he  had 
been  brought  up  to  the  trade.  But  his  spying 
was  all  in  vain.  Either  the  Frau  Margaret  was  too 
clever  for  him,  or  there  was  really  nothing  to  dis- 
cover; but  still  he  was  not  satisfied.  So  he  cast 
about  for  some  way  to  attain  his  end,  and,  by  the 
help  of  the  Evil  One,  he  found  it." 

Here  the  innkeeper's  wife  and  daughter,  who 


IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL.  93 

had  doubtless  heard  the  story  a  hundred  times  over, 
drew  near  and  listened  breathlessly. 

"What,  think  you,"  continued  the  landlord,  "does 
this  black-souled  Caspar  do?  Does  he  punish  the 
poor  woman  within  an  inch  of  her  life,  till  she  con- 
fesses? No.  Does  he  charge  Schmidt  with  having 
tempted  her  from  her  duty,  and  fight  it  out  with 
him  like  a  man?  No.  What  else  then?  I  will  tell 
you.  He  waits  till  the  vigil  of  St.  Margaret — her 
saint's  day — when  he  knows  the  poor  sinful  soul  is 
going  to  confession;  and  he  marches  straight  to  the 
house  of  the  Pere  Chessez — the  very  house  where 
our  own  Pere  Chessez  is  now  living — and  he  finds 
the  good  priest  at  his  devotions  in  his  little  study, 
and  he  says  to  him: 

"'Father  Chessez,  my  wife  is  coming  to  the 
church  this  afternoon  to  make  her  confession  to 
you.' 

"'She  is,'  replies  the  priest. 

'"I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  she  tells  you,'  says 
Caspar;  'and  I  will  wait  here  till  you  come  back 
from  the  church,  that  I  may  hear  it.  Will  you 
do  so?' 

"'Certainly  not,'  replies  the  Pere  Chessez.  'You 
must  surely  know,  Caspar,  that  we  priests  are  for- 
bidden to  reveal  the  secrets  of  the  confessional.' 

'"That  is  nothing  to  me,'  says  Caspar,  with  an 
oath.  'I  am  resolved  to  know  whether  my  wife  is 
guilty  or  innocent;  and  know  it  I  will,  by  fair  means 
or  foul.' 

'"You  shall  never  know  it  from  me,  Caspar,' 
says  the  Pere  Chessez,  very  quietly. 


94  IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

"'Then,  by  Heavens!'  says  Caspar,  'I'll  learn  it 
Tor  myself.'  And  with  that  he  pulls  out  a  heavy 
horse-pistol  from  his  pocket,  and  with  the  butt-end 
of  it  deals  the  Pere  Chessez  a  tremendous  blow 
upon  the  head,  and  then  another,  and  another,  till 
the  poor  young  man  lay  senseless  at  his  feet.  Then 
Caspar,  thinking  he  had  quite  killed  him,  dressed 
himself  in  the  priest's  own  soutane  and  hat;  locked 
the  door;  put  the  key  in  his  pocket;  and  stealing 
round  the  back  way  into  the  church,  shut  himself 
up  in  the  confessional." 

"Then  the  priest  died!"  I  exclaimed,  remember- 
ing the  epitaph  upon  the  tablet. 

"Ay,  mein  Herr — the  Pere  Chessez  died;  but 
not  before  he  had  told  the  story  of  his  assassina- 
tion, and  identified  his  murderer." 

"And  Caspar  Rufenacht,  I  hope,  was  hanged1?" 

"Wait  a  bit,  mein  Herr,  we  have  not  come  to, 
that  yet.  We  left  Caspar  in  the  confessional,  wait- 
ing for  his  wife." 

"And  she  came1?" 

"Yes,  poor  soul!  she  came." 

"And  made  her  confession?" 

"And  made  her  confession,  mein  Herr." 

"What  did  she  confess?" 

The  innkeeper  shook  his  head. 

"That  no  one  ever  knew,  save  the  good  God 
and  her  murderer." 

"Her  murderer!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Ay,  just  that.  Whatever  it  was  that  she  con-' 
fessed,  she  paid  for  it  with  her  life.  He  heard  her 
out,  at  all  events,  without  discovering  himself,  and 


IN   THE   CONFESSIONAL.  95 

let  her  go  home  believing  that  she  had  received 
absolution  for  her  sins.  Those  who  met  her  that 
afternoon  said  she  seemed  unusually  bright  and 
happy.  As  she  passed  through  the  town,  she  went 
into  the  shop  in  the  Mongarten  Strasse,  and  bought 
some  ribbons.  About  half  an  hour  later,  my  own 
father  met  her  outside  the  Basel  Thor,  walking 
briskly  homewards.  He  was  the  last  who  saw  her 
alive. 

"That  evening  (it  was  in  October,  and  the  days 
were  short),  some  travellers  coming  that  way  into 
the  town  heard  shrill  cries,  as  of  a  woman  screaming, 
in  the  direction  of  Caspar's  farm.  But  the  night 
was  very  dark,  and  the  house  lay  back  a  little  way 
from  the  road;  so  they  told  themselves  it  was  only 
some  drunken  peasant  quarrelling  with  his  wife,  and 
passed  on.  Next  morning  Caspar  Rufenacht  came 
toRheinfelden,  walked  very  quietly  into  the  Polizei, 
and  gave  himself  up  to  justice. 

"'I  have  killed  my  wife,'  said  he.  T  have  killed 
the  Pere  Chessez.  And  I  have  committed  sacri- 
lege.' 

"And  so,  indeed,  it  was.  As  for  the  Frau  Mar- 
garet, they  found  her  body  in  an  upper  chamber, 
well-nigh  hacked  to  pieces,  and  the  hatchet  with 
which  the  murder  was  committed  lying  beside  her 
on  the  floor.  He  had  pursued  her,  apparently,  from 
room  to  room;  for  there  were  pools  of  blood  and 
handfuls  of  long  light  hair,  and  marks  of  bloody 
hands  along  the  walls,  all  the  way  from  the  kitchen 
to  the  spot  where  she  lay  dead," 


96  IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

"And  so  he  was  hanged1?"  said  I,  coming  back 
to  my  original  question. 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  the  innkeeper  and  his  woman- 
kind in  chorus.  "He  was  hanged — of  course  he 
was  hanged." 

"And  it  was  the  shock  of  this  double  tragedy 
that  drove  the  younger  Chessez  into  the  church1?" 

"Just  so,  mein  Herr." 

"Well,  he  carries  it  in  his  face.  He  looks  like 
a  most  unhappy  man." 

"Nay,  he  is  not  that,  mein  Herr!"  exclaimed 
the  landlady.  "He  is  melancholy,  but  not  un- 
happy." 

"Well,  then,  austere." 

"Nor  is  he  austere,  except  towards  himself." 

"True,  wife,"  said  the  innkeeper;  "but,  as  I 
said,  he  carries  that  sort  of  thing  too  far.  You 
understand,  mein  Herr,"  he  added,  touching  his 
forehead  with  his  forefinger,  "the  good  pastor  has 
let  his  mind  dwell  too  much  upon  the  past.  He  is 
nervous — too  nervous,  and  too  low." 

I  saw  it  all  now.  That  terrible  light  in  his  eyes 
was  the  light  of  insanity.  That  stony  look  in  his 
face  was  the  fixed,  hopeless  melancholy  of  a  mind 
diseased. 

"Does  he  know  that  he  is  mad1?"  I  asked,  as 
the  landlord  rose  to  go. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked  doubtful. 

"I  have  not  said  that  the  Pere  Chessez  is  mad, 
mein  Herr,"  he  replied.  "He  has  strange  fancies 
sometimes,  and  takes  his  fancies  for  facts — that  is 


IN  THE   CONFESSIONAL.  97 

all.  But  I  am  quite  sure  that  he  does  not  believe 
himself  to  be  less  sane  than  his  neighbours." 

So  the  innkeeper  left  me,  and  I  (my  head  full 
of  the  story  I  had  just  heard)  put  on  my  hat,  went 
out  into  the  market-place,  asked  my  way  to  the  Basel 
Thor,  and  set  off  to  explore  the  scene  of  the  Frau 
Margaret's  murder. 

I  found  it  without  difficulty — a  long,  low-fronted, 
beetle-browed  farm-house,  lying  back  a  meadow's 
length  from  the  road.  There  were  children  playing 
upon  the  threshold,  a  flock  of  turkeys  gobbling 
about  the  barn-door,  and  a  big  dog  sleeping  out- 
side his  kennel  close  by.  The  chimneys,  too,  were 
smoking  merrily.  Seeing  these  signs  of  life  and 
cheerfulness,  I  abandoned  all  idea  of  asking  to  go 
over  the  house.  I  felt  that  I  had  no  right  to  carry 
my  morbid  curiosity  into  this  peaceful  home;  so  I 
turned  away,  and  retraced  my  steps  towards  Rhein- 
felden. 

It  was  not  yet  seven,  and  the  sun  had  still  an 
hour's  course  to  run.  I  re-entered  the  town,  strolled 
back  through  the  street,  and  presently  came  again 
to  the  Friedrich's  Thor  and  the  path  leading  to  the 
church.  An  irresistible  impulse  seemed  to  drag 
me  back  to  the  place. 

Shudderingly,  and  with  a  sort  of  dread  that  was 
half  longing,  I  pushed  open  the  churchyard  gate 
and  went  in.  The  doors  were  closed;  a  goat  was 
browsing  among  the  graves;  and  the  rushing  of  the 
Rhine,  some  three  hundred  yards  away,  was  dis- 
tinctly audible  in  the  silence.  I  looked  round  for 
the   priest's   house — the   scene  of  the  first  murder; 

The  Black  Forest.  7 


0,8  IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

but  from  this  side,  at  all  events,  no  house  was 
visible.  Going  round,  however,  to  the  back  of  the 
church,  I  saw  a  gate,  a  box-bordered  path,  and, 
peeping  through  some  trees,  a  chimney  and  the 
roof  of  a  little  brown-tiled  house. 

This,  then,  was  the  path  along  which  Caspar 
Rufenacht,  with  the  priest's  blood  upon  his  hands 
and  the  priest's  gown  upon  his  shoulders,  had  taken 
his  guilty  way  to  the  confessional !  How  quiet  it 
all  looked  in  the  golden  evening  light !  How  like 
the  church-path  of  an  English  parsonage ! 

I  wished  I  could  have  seen  something  more  of 
the  house  than  that  bit  of  roof  and  that  one  chimney. 
There  must,  I  told  myself,  be  some  other  entrance 
— some  way  round  by  the  road!  Musing  and  linger- 
ing thus,  I  was  startled  by  a  quiet  voice  close  against 
my  shoulder,  saying: — 

"A  pleasant  evening,  mein  Herr!" 

I  turned,  and  found  the  priest  at  my  elbow. 
He  had  come  noiselessly  across  the  grass,  and  was 
standing  between  me  and  the  sunset,  like  a  shadow. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  stammered,  moving 
away  from  the  gate.     "I  was  looking — " 

I  stopped  in  some  surprise,  and  indeed  with 
some  sense  of  relief,  for  it  was  not  the  same  priest 
that  I  had  seen  in  the  morning.  No  two,  indeed, 
could  well  be  more  unlike,  for  this  man  was  small, 
white-haired,  gentle-looking,  with  a  soft,  sad  smile 
inexpressibly  sweet  and  winning. 

"You  were  looking  at  my  arbutus?"  he  said. 

I  had  scarcely  observed   the   arbutus  till  now, 


IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL.  99 

but  I  bowed  and  said  something  to  the  effect  that 
it  was  an  unusually  fine  tree. 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "but  I  have  a  rhododendron 
round  at  the  front  that  is  still  finer.  Will  you  come 
in  and  see  it?" 

I  said  I  should  be  pleased  to  do  so.  He  led 
the  way,  and  I  followed. 

"I  hope  you  like  this  part  of  our  Rhine-coun- 
try1?" he  said,  as  we  took  the  path  through  the 
shrubbery. 

"I  like  it  so  well,"  I  replied,  "that  if  I  were  to 
live  anywhere  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine ,  I  should 
certainly  choose  some  spot  on  the  Upper  Rhine  be- 
tween Schaffhausen  and  Basle." 

"And  you  would  be  right,"  he  said.  "Nowhere 
is  the  river  so  beautiful.  Nearer  the  glaciers  it  is 
milky  and  turbid — beyond  Basle  it  soon  becomes 
muddy.  Here  we  have  it  blue  as  the  sky — spark- 
ling as  champagne.  Here  is  my  rhododendron.  It 
stands  twelve  feet  high,  and  measures  as  many  in 
diameter.  I  had  more  than  two  hundred  blooms 
upon  it  last  Spring." 

When  I  had  duly  admired  this  giant  shrub,  he 
took  me  to  a  little  arbour  on  a  bit  of  steep  green 
bank  overlooking  the  river,  where  he  invited  me  to 
sit  down  and  rest.  From  hence  I  could  see  the 
porch  and  part  of  the  front  of  his  little  house;  but 
it  was  all  so  closely  planted  round  with  trees  and 
shrubs  that  no  clear  view  of  it  seemed  obtainable 
in  any  direction.  Here  we  sat  for  some  time  chat- 
ting about  the   weather,  the   approaching  vintage, 

r 


IOO  IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

and  so  forth,  and  watching  the  sunset.  Then  I  rose 
to  take  my  leave. 

"I  heard  of  you  this  evening  at  the  Krone,  mein 
Herr,"  he  said.  "You  were  out,  or  I  should  have 
called  upon  you.  I  am  glad  that  chance  has  made 
us  acquainted.     Do  you  remain  over  to-morrow1?" 

"No;  I  must  go  on  to-morrow  to  Basle,"  I  an- 
swered. And  then,  hesitating  a  little,  I  added: — 
"you  heard  of  me,  also,  I  fear,  in  the  church." 

"In  the  church1?"  he  repeated. 

"Seeing  the  door  open,  I  went  in — from  curio- 
sity— as  a  traveller;  just  to  look  round  for  a  mo- 
ment and  rest." 

"Naturally." 

"I — I  had  no  idea,  however,  that  I  was  not 
alone  there.  I  would  not  for  the  world  have  in- 
truded—" 

"I  do  not  understand,"  he  said,  seeing  me 
hesitate.  "The  church  stands  open  all  day  long.  It 
is  free  to  every  one." 

"Ah!  I  see  he  has  not  told  you!" 

The  priest  smiled  but  looked  puzzled. 

"He1?    Whom  do  you  mean]" 

"The  other  priest,  mon  pere — your  colleague.  I 
regret  to  have  broken  in  upon  his  meditations;  but 
I  had  been  so  long  in  the  church,  and  it  was  all  so 
still  and  quiet,  that  it  never  occurred  to  me  that 
there  might  be  some  one  in  the  confessional." 

The  priest  looked  at  me  in  a  strange,  startled 
way. 

"In  the  confessional!"  he  repeated,  with  a  catch- 


IN  THE   CONFESSIONAL.  IOI 

ing  of  his  breath.  "You  saw  some  one — in  the  con- 
fessional?" 

"I  am  ashamed  to  say  that,  having  thoughtlessly 
opened  the  door — " 

"You  saw — what  did  you  see?" 

"A  priest,  mon  pere." 

"A  priest!  Can  you  describe  him?  Should  you 
know  him  again?  Was  he  pale,  and  tall,  and  gaunt, 
with  long  black  hair?" 

"The  same,  undoubtedly." 

"And  his  eyes — did  you  observe  anything  par- 
ticular about  his  eyes?" 

"Yes;  they  were  large,  wild-looking,  dark  eyes, 
with  a  look  in  them — a  look  I  cannot  describe." 

"A  look  of  terror!"  cried  the  pastor,  now  greatly 
agitated.  "A  look  of  terror — of  remorse — of  de- 
spair!" 

"Yes,  it  was  a  look  that  might  mean  all  that,"  I 
replied,  my  astonishment  increasing  at  every  word. 
"You  seem  troubled.    Who  is  he?" 

But  instead  of  answering  my  question,  the  pastor 
took  off  his  hat,  looked  up  with  a  radiant,  awe- 
struck face,  and  said: — 

"All-merciful  God,  I  thank  Thee!  I  thank  Thee 
that  I  am  not  mad,  and  that  Thou  hast  sent  this 
stranger  to  be  my  assurance  and  my  comfort!" 

Having  said  these  words,  he  bowed  his  head, 
and  his  lips  moved  in  silent  prayer.  When  he  looked 
up  again,  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"My  son,"  he  said,  laying  his  trembling  hand 
upon  my  arm,  "I  owe  you  an  explanation;  but  I 
cannot  give  it  to  you  now.    It  must  wait  till  I  can 


102  IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

speak  more  calmly — till  to-morrow,  when  I  must  see 
you  again.  It  involves  a  terrible  story — a  story  pe- 
culiarly painful  to  myself — enough  now  if  I  tell  you 
that  I  have  seen  the  Thing  you  describe — seen  It 
many  times;  and  yet,  because  It  has  been  visible  to 
my  eyes  alone ,  I  have  doubted  the  evidence  of  my 
senses.  The  good  people  here  believe  that  much 
sorrow  and  meditation  have  touched  my  brain.  I 
have  half  believed  it  myself  till  now.  But  you — you 
have  proved  to  me  that  I  am  the  victim  of  no  illu- 
sion." 

"But  in  Heaven's  name,"  I  exclaimed,  "what  do 
you  suppose  I  saw  in  the  confessional?" 

"You  saw  the  likeness  of  one  who,  guilty  also 
of  a  double  murder,  committed  the  deadly  sin  of 
sacrilege  in  that  very  spot,  more  than  thirty  years 
ago,"  replied  the  Pere  Chessez,  solemnly. 

"Caspar  Rufenacht!" 

"Ah!  you  have  heard  the  story?  Then  I  am  spared 
the  pain  of  telling  it  to  you.  That  is  well." 

I  bent  my  head  in  silence.  We  walked  together 
without  another  word  to  the  wicket,  and  thence 
round  to  the  churchyard  gate.  It  was  now  twilight, 
and  the  first  stars  were  out. 

"Good-night,  my  son,"  said  the  pastor,  giving 
me  his  hand.    "Peace  be  with  you." 

As  he  spoke  the  words  his  grasp  tightened — 
his  eyes  dilated — his  whole  countenance  became 
rigid. 

"Look!"   he  whispered.    "Look  where  it  goes!" 

I  followed  the  direction  of  his  eyes,  and  there, 
with  a  freezing  horror  which  I  have   no   words  to 


IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL.  IO3 

describe,  I  saw — distinctly  saw  through  the  deepen- 
ing gloom — a  tall,  dark  figure  in  a  priest's  soutane 
and  broad-brimmed  hat,  moving  slowly  across  the 
path  leading  from  the  parsonage  to  the  church.  For 
a  moment  it  seemed  to  pause — then  passed  on  to 
the  deeper  shade,  and  disappeared. 

"You  saw  it?"  said  the  pastor. 

"Yes— plainly." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath;  crossed  himself  devoutly; 
and  leaned  upon  the  gate,  as  if  exhausted. 

"This  is  the  third  time  I  have  seen  it  this  year," 
he  said.  "Again  I  thank  God  for  the  certainty 
that  I  see  a  visible  thing,  and  that  His  great  gift  of 
reason  is  mine  unimpaired.  But  I  would  that  He 
were  graciously  pleased  to  release  me  from  the  sight 
— the  horror  of  it  is  sometimes  more  than  I  know 
how  to  bear.    Good  night." 

With  this  he  again  touched  my  hand;  and  so, 
seeing  that  he  wished  to  be  alone,  I  silently  left 
him.  At  the  Friedrich's  Thor  I  turned  and  looked 
back.  He  was  still  standing  by  the  churchyard 
gate,  just  visible  through  the  gloom  of  the  fast 
deepening  twilight. 


I  never  saw  the  Pere  Chessez  again.  Save  his 
own  old  servant,  I  was  the  last  who  spoke  with  him 
in  this  world.  He  died  that  night — died  in  his  bed, 
where  he  was  found  next  morning  with  his  hands 
crossed  upon  his  breast,  and  with  a  placid  smile 
upon  his  lips,  as  if  he  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  act 
of  prayer. 


104  IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

As  the  news  spread  from  house  to  house,  the 
whole  town  rang  with  lamentations.  The  church- 
bells  tolled;  the  carpenters  left  their  work  in  the 
streets;  the  children,  dismissed  from  school,  went 
home  weeping. 

"'Twill  be  the  saddest  Kermess  in  Rheinfelden 
to-morrow,  mein  Herr!"  said  my  good  host  of  the 
Krone,  as  I  shook  hands  with  him  at  parting.  "We 
have  lost  the  best  of  pastors  and  of  friends.  He 
was  a  saint.  If  you  had  come  but  one  day  later, 
you  would  not  have  seen  him!" 

And  with  this  he  brushed  his  sleeve  across  his 
eyes,  and  turned  away. 

Every  shutter  was  up,  every  blind  down,  every 
door  closed,  as  I  passed  along  the  Friedrich's  Strasse 
about  midday  on  my  way  to  Basle;  and  the  few 
townsfolk  I  met  looked  grave  and  downcast.  Then 
I  crossed  the  bridge  and,  having  shown  my  pass- 
port to  the  German  sentry  on  the  Baden  side,  I  took 
one  long,  last  farewell  look  at  the  little  walled  town 
as  it  lay  sleeping  in  the  sunshine  by  the  river — 
knowing  that  I  should  see  it  no  more. 


THE  TRAGEDY  IN 

THE  PALAZZO  BARDELLO. 


[The  scene  of  this  story  is  laid  in  the  Rome  of 
fifteen  years  ago,  when  the  old  Pontifical  regime 
was  yet  in  full  force,  and  Victor  Emanuel  was 
still  King  of  Sardinia.] 


THE  TRAGEDY  IN 
THE  PALAZZO   BARDELLO. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  sun  had  been  up  for  the  best  part  of  an 
hour;  the  golden  haze  in  the  East  was  slowly  melt- 
ing away;  the  sluggish  tide  of  bullock  trucks  had 
fairly  set  in  along  the  Via  Sacra;  and  a  faint, 
universal  stir  of  awakening  life  was  to  be  felt  rather 
than  heard  in  the  pleasant  morning  air,  when  a 
certain  Englishman,  Hugh  Girdlestone  by  name, 
rose  from  his  lounging  attitude  against  the  parapet 
of  the  Tower  of  the  Capitol,  and  prepared  to  be 
gone.  He  had  been  standing  there  in  the  same 
spot,  in  the  same  attitude,  since  the  first  grey  of  the 
dawn.  He  had  seen  the  last  star  fade  from  the 
sky.  He  had  seen  the  shadowy  Sabine  peaks  up- 
lift themselves  one  by  one,  and  the  Campagna 
emerge,  like  a  troubled  sea,  from  the  mystery  of 
the  twilight. 

Rome  with  its  multitudinous  domes  and  bell- 
towers,  its  history,  its  poetry,  its  fable,  lay  at  his 
feet — yonder  the  Coliseum,  brown,  vast,  indistinct 
against  the  light,  with  the  blue  day  piercing  its  top- 
most arches;   to  the  left  the  shapeless  ruins  of  the 


I08  THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE 

Palace  of  the  C?esars;  to  the  right,  faintly  visible 
above  the  mist,  the  pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius,  beside 
which,  amid  a  wilderness  of  sweet  wild  violets,  lie 
the  ashes  of  John  Keats;  nearer  still,  the  sullen 
Tiber  eddying  over  the  fast  vanishing  piers  of  the 
Pons  Emilius;  nearest  of  all,  the  Forum,  with  its 
excavations,  its  columns,  its  triumphal  arches,  its 
scanty  turf,  its  stunted  acacias,  its  indescribable  air 
of  repose  and  desolation;  and  beyond  and  around 
all,  the  brown  and  broken  Campagna,  bounded  on 
the  one  hand  by  long  chains  of  snow-streaked 
Apennines,  and  on  the  other  by  a  shining  zone  of 
sea.  A  marvellous  panorama!  Perhaps,  taking  it 
for  all  in  all,  the  most  marvellous  panorama  that 
Europe  has  to  show.  Hugh  Girdlestone  knew  every 
feature  of  it  by  heart.  He  was  familiar  with  every 
crumbling  tower  and  modern  campanile,  with  every 
space  of  open  piazza,  with  every  green  enclosure, 
with  the  site  of  every  famous  ruin  and  the  outline 
of  every  famous  hill.  It  was  his  favourite  haunt — 
the  one  pageant  of  which  his  eyes  and  his  imagina- 
tion were  never  weary.  He  had  seen  the  sun  rise 
and  set  upon  that  scene  many  and  many  a  time, 
both  now  and  in  years  past.  He  might,  in  all 
probability,  stand  in  the  same  spot  and  witness  the 
same  gorgeous  spectacle  to-morrow;  and  yet  he 
lingered  there  as  fondly  as  if  this  visit  were  his 
first,  and  left  as  reluctantly  as  if  it  were  destined  to 
be  his  last. 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully  he  went  his  way,  out 
through  the  spacious  courtyard,  past  the  bronze 
horse  and  his  imperial  rider,   down  the  great  steps, 


PALAZZO  BARDELLO.  IOO, 

and  along  the  Via  Ara  Coeli.  Passing  the  church 
of  the  Jesuits,  he  paused  for  a  moment  to  listen  to 
the  chanting.  As  he  did  so,  a  Campagna  drover  in 
a  rough  sheepskin  jacket  stopped  his  truck  to  kneel 
for  a  moment  on  the  lowest  step  and  then  trudge 
on  again;  and  presently  an  Albano  woman  lifted 
the  ponderous  leather  curtain  and  came  out,  bring- 
ing with  her  a  momentary  rush  of  rolling  harmonies. 
The  Englishman  listened  and  lingered,  made  as  if 
he  would  go  in,  and  then,  with  something  of  a  smile 
upon  his  lip,  turned  hastily  away.  Going  straight 
on,  with  his  head  a  little  thrown  forward  and  his 
hat  pulled  somewhat  low  upon  his  brow,  he  then 
pushed  on  at  a  swift,  swinging  stride,  proceeding 
direct  to  the  post-office,  and  passing  the  Pantheon 
without  so  much  as  a  glance. 

Manly,  well-born,  well-educated,  gifted  with  a 
more  than  ordinary  amount  of  brains,  and,  perhaps, 
with  a  more  than  ordinary  share  of  insular  stub- 
bornness, Hugh  Girdlestone  was  just  one  of  those 
men  whom  it  does  one  good  to  meet  in  the  streets 
of  a  continental  city.  He  was  an  Englishman 
through  and  through;  and  he  was  precisely  that 
type  of  Englishman  who  commands  the  respect, 
though  seldom  the  liking,  of  foreigners.  He  ex- 
pressed and  held  to  his  opinions  with  a  decision 
that  they  disliked  intensely.  His  voice  had  a  ring 
of  authority  that  grated  upon  their  ears.  His  very 
walk  had  in  it  something  characteristic  and  resolute 
that  offended  their  prejudices.  For  his  appearance, 
it  was  as  insular  as  his  gait  or  his  accent.  He  was 
tall,  strongly  made,  somewhat  gaunt  and  swift-look- 


I  I O  THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE 

ing  about  the  limbs,  with  a  slight  stoop  in  the 
shoulders,  and  a  trick  of  swinging  his  gloves  in  his 
right  hand  as  he  went  along.  In  complexion  and 
feature  he  was  not  unlike  the  earlier  portraits  of 
Charles  II.  The  lines  of  his  face  were  less  harsh, 
and  his  skin  was  less  swarthy;  but  there  was  the 
same  sarcastic  play  of  lip,  and  now  and  then  a  flash 
of  the  same  restless  fire  in  the  eye. 

Nor  did  the  resemblance  end  here.  It  came 
out  strongest  of  all  in  a  mere  passing  shadow  of 
expression — that  expression  of  saturnine  foreboding 
which  Walpole  aptly  defined  as  the  "fatality  of  air" 
common  to  the  line  of  the  Stuarts.  The  look  was 
one  which  came  to  his  face  but  rarely — so  rarely 
that  many  of  his  intimate  acquaintances  had  never 
seen  it  there;  but  it  started  to  the  surface  some- 
times, like  a  hidden  writing,  and  sometimes  settled 
like  a  darkness  on  his  brow. 

The  main  facts  of  his  story  up  to  the  morning 
of  this  day — this  13th  day  of  February,  1857 — may 
be  told  in  a  few  lines. 

He  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  Derbyshire  squire, 
had  taken  honours  at  Cambridge,  and  had  been 
called  to  the  bar  some  four  or  five  years  back.  As 
yet  he  could  scarcely  be  said  to  have  entered  actively 
upon  his  professional  life.  He  had  written  an  able 
treatise  on  the  law  of  International  Copyright,  and 
edited  an  important  digest  of  Chancery  practice. 
He  had  also  been  for  years  in  the  habit  of  con- 
tributing to  the  best  periodical  literature  of  the 
day.  Within  the  last  four  months,  after  a  prolonged 
opposition  on  the  part  of  her  nearest  relatives,  he 


PALAZZO   BARDELLO.  I  I  I 

had  happily  married  a  young  lady  of  ancient  Roman 
Catholic  family  and  moderate  fortune,  to  whom  he 
had  been  attached  from  boyhood.  They  were  spend- 
ing a  long  honeymoon  in  Rome,  and  were  perfectly 
happy  as  a  pair  of  lovers  in  a  fairy  tale.  When  it 
is  added  that  she  was  just  twenty-two  and  he  thirty- 
four  years  of  age,  the  outline  of  their  little  history 
is  made  out  with  sufficient  clearness  for  all  the 
purposes  of  this  narrative. 

Pushing  on,  then,  at  his  eager  pace,  Hugh 
Girdlestone  came  presently  to  the  post-office  and 
inquired  for  his  letters.  There  was  but  one — a 
square,  blue-looking,  ill-favoured  sort  of  document, 
sealed  with  a  big  office  seal  and  addressed  in  a 
trim  business  hand.  He  had  to  show  his  passport 
before  the  clerk  would  trust  it  beyond  the  bars  of 
the  little  cage  in  which  he  sat,  and  then  it  was 
overweight,  and  he  was  called  upon  to  pay  forty-six 
bajocchi  for  extra  postage.  This  done  —  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  clerk  was  wilfully  and 
maliciously  slow  about  it — Hugh  Girdlestone  crushed 
the  letter  into  an  inner  breast-pocket,  and  turned 
away.  At  the  door  he  hesitated,  looked  at  his  watch, 
crossed  over,  withdrew  into  the  shade  of  a  neigh- 
bouring porte-cochere,  took  his  letter  out  again,  and 
tore  it  open. 

It  contained  two  enclosures;  the  one  a  note 
from  his  publishers,  the  other  a  letter  of  credit  upon 
a  great  Roman  banking-house.  He  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  satisfaction.  He  had  been  expecting  this 
remittance  for  several  days  past,  not  altogether  with 
anxiety,  for  he  was  in  no  immediate  need  of  money, 


I  I  2  THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE 

but  with  some  degree  of  impatience;  for  the  fate  of 
more  than  one  project  was  involved  in  the  sum 
which  this  letter  of  credit  might  chance  to  represent. 
The  extension  of  their  tour  as  far  as  Naples,  the 
purchase  of  certain  bronzes  and  cameos,  and  the 
date  of  their  return  to  England,  were  all  dependent 
upon  it.  It  was  no  wonder,  then,  that  Hugh  Girdle- 
stone's  brow  cleared  at  sight  of  the  amount  for 
which  he  found  himself  entitled  to  draw  upon  the 
princely  establishment  in  the  Piazza  Venezia.  It 
exceeded  his  expectations  by  nearly  one-half,  and 
made  him  a  rich  man  for  the  next  three  months. 

Having  read  the  letter  and  folded  the  enclosure 
carefully  away  in  his  pocket-book,  he  then  struck  off 
in  a  north-easterly  direction  towards  some  of  those 
narrow  thoroughfares  that  lie  between  the  Tiber, 
the  Corso,  and  the  Piazza  di  Spagna. 

The  streets  were  now  beginning  to  be  alive  with 
passengers.  The  shop-keepers  were  busy  arranging 
their  windows;  the  vetturini  were  ranging  themselves 
in  their  accustomed  ranks;  the  beggars  were  lazily 
setting  about  their  professional  avocations  for  the 
day;  and  the  French  regiments  were  turning  out,  as 
usual,  for  morning  parade  on  the  Pincio.  Here 
and  there  a  long-haired  student  might  be  seen  with 
his  colour-box  under  his  arm,  trudging  away  to  his 
work  of  reproduction  in  some  neighbouring  gallery; 
or  a  Guarda  Nobile,  cigarette  en  douche,  riding 
leisurely  towards  the  Vatican.  Here  and  there,  too, 
on  the  steps  of  the  churches  and  at  the  corners  of 
the  streets,  were  gathered  little  knots  of  priests  and 


PALAZZO   BARDELLO.  I  I  3 

mendicant  friars,  deep  in  pious  gossip,  and  redolent 
less  of  sanctity  than  of  garlic. 

But  to  Hugh  Girdlestone  these  sights  and  sounds 
were  all  too  familiar  to  claim  even  passing  atten- 
tion. He  went  on  his  way,  preoccupied  and  un- 
observant, with  a  face  of  happy  thoughtfulness  and 
a  head  full  of  joyous  hopes  and  projects.  Life  had, 
perhaps,  never  seemed  so  bright  for  him  as  at  that 
moment.  The  happy  present  was  his  own,  and  the 
future  with  all  its  possible  rewards  and  blessings  lay, 
as  it  were,  unfolded  before  him.  It  was  not  often 
that  he  was  visited  by  a  holiday  mood  such  as  this; 
and,  English  as  he  was,  he  could  scarcely  forbear 
smiling  to  himself  as  he  went  along.  Coming  pre- 
sently, however,  into  a  long  picturesque  street  lined 
with  shops  on  both  sides  from  end  to  end,  he 
slackened  his  pace,  shook  off  his  reverie,  and  began 
loitering  before  the  windows  with  the  air  of  a  pur- 
chaser. 

Pausing  now  at  a  cameo-cutter's,  now  at  a 
mosaicisms,  now  at  a  jeweller's,  hesitating  between 
the  bronze  medals  in  this  window  and  the  antique 
gems  in  that,  he  came  presently  to  one  of  those 
shops  for  the  sale  of  devotional  articles,  one  or 
more  of  which  are  to  be  found  in  almost  every 
street  of  Rome.  Here  were  exquisitely  carved  ro- 
saries in  cedar  and  coral  and  precious  stones,  votive 
offerings  in  silver  and  wax,  consecrated  palms, 
coloured  prints  of  saints  and  martyrs  in  emblematic 
frames,  missals,  crosses,  holy  water  vessels,  and 
wreaths  of  immortelles.  Here  also,  occupying  the 
centre  of  the  window  and  relieved  against  a  stand 

The  Black  Forest.  8 


114  THE  'I'KAGEDY  IN  THE 

of  crimson  cloth,  stood  an  ivory  crucifixion  designed 
after  the  famous  Vandyck  at  Antwerp,  and  mea- 
suring about  ten  inches  in  height.  It  was  a  little 
gem  in  its  way — a  tiny  masterpiece  of  rare  and  de- 
licate workmanship. 

Hugh  Girdlestone  had  seen  and  admired  it 
many  a  time  before,  but  never  till  now  with  any 
thought  of  purchase.  To-day,  however,  the  aspect 
of  affairs  was  changed.  His  letter  of  credit  trou- 
bled his  peace  of  mind  and  oppressed  him  with  an 
uneasy  sense  of  wealth.  He  longed  to  buy  some- 
thing for  his  little  bride  at  home,  and  he  knew  that 
he  could  find  nothing  in  all  Rome  which  she  would 
prefer  to  this.  She  would  appreciate  it  as  a  piece 
of  art,  and  prize  it  as  a  most  precious  adjunct  to 
her  devotions.  She  would  love  it,  too,  for  his  dear 
sake,  and  her  eyes  would  rest  upon  it  when  she 
prayed  for  him  in  her  orisons.  Dear,  pious,  tender 
little  heart!  it  should  be  hers,  cost  what  it  might. 
He  would  take  it  home  to  her  this  very  morning. 
What  pleasure  to  see  the  glad  wonder  in  her  eyes! 
What  pleasure  to  give  her  back  smile  for  smile,  and 
kiss  for  kiss,  when  she  should  fly  into  his  arms  to 
thank  him  for  the  gift! 

So  Hugh  Girdlestone  went  in  and  bought  it, 
reckless  of  the  breach  it  made  in  his  purse,  and 
caring  for  nothing  but  the  delight  of  gratifying  what 
he  so  dearly  loved. 

That  he,  an  ultra-liberal  thinker  in  all  matters 
religious  and  political,  should  select  such  a  gift  for 
his  wife,  was  just  one  of  those  characteristic  traits 
that  essentially  marked  the  man.     Setting  but  slight 


PALAZZO   BARDELLO.  115 

value  on  all  forms  of  creeds,  and  ranking  that  of 
the  Romanist  at  a  lower  level  than  most,  he  could 
yet  feel  a  sort  of  indulgent  admiration  for  the  grace- 
ful side  of  Roman  Catholic  worship.  The  flowers, 
the  music,  the  sculpture,  the  paintings,  the  per- 
fumes, the  gorgeous  costumes,  gratified  his  sense 
of  beauty;  and,  regarding  these  things  from  a 
purely  aesthetic  point  of  view,  he  was  willing  to 
admit  that  it  was  a  pretty,  poetical  sort  of  religion 
enough— for  a  woman. 

Carrying  the  ivory  carving  carefully  packed  in 
a  little  oblong  box  under  his  arm,  Hugh  Girdlestone 
then  hastened  homewards  with  his  purchase.  It 
was  now  ten  o'clock,  and  all  Rome  was  as  full  of 
stir  and  life  as  at  mid-day.  His  way  lay  through 
the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  up  the  great  steps,  and  on 
through  the  Via  Sistina,  to  a  certain  by-street  near 
the  Quattro  Fontane,  where  he  and  his  little  wife 
occupied  an  upper  floor  in  a  small  palazzo  situated 
upon  one  of  the  loftiest  and  healthiest  points  of  the 
Quirinal  Hill.  As  he  neared  the  spot,  a  sense  of 
pleasurable  excitement  came  upon  him.  He  smiled, 
unconsciously  to  himself,  and,  scarcely  knowing  that 
he  did  so,  quickened  his  pace  at  every  step.  To 
the  accustomed  beggar  at  the  corner  he  flung  a 
double  dole  in  the  joyousness  of  his  heart;  to  a  lean 
dog  prowling  round  the  cortile,  a  biscuit  that  chanced 
to  be  in  his  pocket.  Happiness  disposes  some 
people  to  benevolence,  and  Hugh  Girdlestone  was 
one  of  that  number. 

Up  he  went — up  the  broad  stone  staircase  which 
served  as  a  general  thoroughfare  to  the  dwellers  in 


Il6  THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE 

the  Palazzo  Bardello;  past  the  first  landing,  with  its 
English  footman,  insolently  discontent,  lolling  against 
the  half-opened  door;  past  the  second  landing,  fra- 
grant with  flowers,  the  temporary  home  of  a  wealthy 
American  family;  past  the  third,  where,  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  stormy  solfeggi,  lived  an  Italian  tenor 
and  his  wife;  and  on,  two  steps  at  a  time,  to  the 
fourth,  where  all  that  he  loved  best  in  life  awaited 
his  coming!  There  he  paused.  His  own  visiting 
card  was  nailed  upon  the  door,  and  under  his  name, 
in  a  delicate  female  hand,  was  written  that  of  his 
wife.  Happy  Hugh  Girdlestone!  There  was  not  a 
lighter  heart  in  Rome  at  that  moment  when,  having 
delayed  an  instant  to  take  breath  before  going  in, 
he  pulled  out  his  latch-key,  opened  the  gates  of  his 
paradise,  and  passed  into  the  shady  little  vestibule 
beyond. 

At  the  door  of  the  salon  he  was  met  by  Mar- 
gherita,  their  Roman  servant — a  glorious  creature 
who  looked  as  if  she  might  have  been  the  mother 
of  the  Gracchi,  but  who  was  married,  instead,  to  an 
honest  water-carrier  down  by  the  Ripetta,  and  was 
thankful  to  go  out  to  service  for  some  months  every 
year. 

"Hush!"  she  whispered,  with  her  finger  on  her 
lip.     "She  sleeps  still." 

The  breakfast  lay  on  the  table,  untouched  and 
ready;  the  morning  sunshine  flamed  in  at  the  win- 
dows; the  flowers  on  the  balcony  filled  the  air  of 
the  room  with  a  voluptuous  perfume.  It  was  a  day 
of  days — a  day  when  to  be  still  in  bed  seemed 
almost   like  a  sacrilege — a   day   when,   above   all 


PALAZZO   BARDELLO.  I  I  7 

others,  one  should  be  up,  and  doing,  and  revelling 
in  the  spring-time  of  the  glad  new  year. 

Hugh  Girdlestone  could  scarcely  believe  that 
Margherita  was  in  earnest. 

"Sleeps!"  he  repeated.     "What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  the  Signora  has  not  yet  rung  her 
bell." 

"But  is  she  still  in  bed?" 

"Still  in  bed,  Signore,  and  sleeping  soundly.  I 
stole  in  about  half-an-hour  ago,  and  she  never  heard 
me.  I  would  not  wake  her.  Sleep  is  a  blessed 
thing — the  good  God  sends  it." 

The  Englishman  laughed  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"One  may  have  too  much,  even  of  a  blessing, 
my  good  Margherita,"  he  said.  "/  shall  wake  her, 
at  all  events,  and  she  will  thank  me  for  doing  so. 
See — I  have  something  here  worth  the  opening  of 
one's  eyes  to  look  upon!" 

Margherita  clasped  her  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of 
devotional  admiration. 

"Ctelo!"  she  exclaimed.     "How  beautiful!" 

He  placed  the  carving  on  a  stand  of  red  cloth, 
and  then,  going  over  to  the  balcony,  gathered  a 
handful  of  orange  blossoms  and  crimson  azalias. 

"We  must  decorate  our  altar  with  flowers,  Mar- 
gherita," he  said,  smiling.  "Fetch  me  those  two 
white  vases  from  the  chimney-piece  in  the  ante- 
room." 

The  vases  were  brought,  and  he  arranged  his 
bouquets  as  tenderly  and  gracefully  as  a  woman 
might  have  arranged  them.     This  done,  he  stole  to 


I  T  8  THE   TRAGEDY   IN  THE 

the  bedroom  door,  opened  it  noiselessly,  and 
peeped  in. 

All  within  was  wrapt  in  a  delicious,  dreamy 
dusk.  The  jalousies  were  closed  and  the  inner 
blinds  drawn  down;  but  one  window  stood  a  few 
inches  open,  admitting  a  soft  breath  of  morning 
air,  and  now  and  then  a  faint  echo  from  the  world 
beyond.  He  advanced  very  cautiously.  He  held 
his  breath — he  stole  on  a  step  at  a  time — he  would 
not  have  roused  her  for  the  world  till  all  was  ready. 
At  the  dressing-table  he  paused  and  looked  round. 
He  could  just  see  the  dim  outline  of  her  form  in 
the  bed.  He  could  just  see  how  one  little  hand 
rested  on  the  coverlet,  and  how  her  hair  lay  like 
a  lustrous  cloud  upon  the  pillow.  Very  carefully 
he  then  removed  her  dressing-case  and  desk  from  a 
tiny  table  close  by,  carried  it  to  the  side  of  the  bed, 
and  placed  it  where  her  eyes  must  first  meet  it  on 
waking.  He  next  crept  back  to  the  salon  for  the 
ivory  carving;  then  for  the  flowers;  and  then  arranged 
them  on  the  table  like  the  decorations  of  a  minia- 
ture shrine. 

And  all  this  time  she  neither  woke  nor  stirred. 

At  last,  his  pretty  little  preparations  being  all 
complete,  the  young  husband,  careful  even  now  not 
to  startle  her  too  rudely,  gently  unclosed  the  ja- 
lousies, drew  aside  the  blinds,  and  filled  the  room 
with  sunshine. 

"Ethel,"  he  said.  "Ethel,  do  you  know  how 
late  it  is?" 

But  Ethel  still  slept  on. 

He  moved  a  step  nearer.     Her  face  was  turned 


PALAZZO   BARBELLO.  I IQ 

to  the  pillow;  but  he  could  see  the  rounded  outline 
of  her  cheek,  and  it  struck  him  that  she  looked 
strangely  pale.  His  heart  gave  a  great  throb;  his 
breath  came  short;  a  nameless  terror — a  terror  of 
he  knew  not  what — fell  suddenly  upon  him. 

"Ethel!"  he  repeated.  "My  darling — my  dar- 
ling!" 

He  sprang  to  the  bedside — he  hung  over  her — 
he  touched  her  hand,  her  cheek,  her  neck — then 
uttered  one  wild,  despairing  cry,  and  staggered  back 
against  the  wall. 

She  was  dead. 

Not  fainting.  No;  not  even  in  the  first  horror 
of  that  moment  did  he  deceive  himself  with  so 
vain  a  hope.  She  was  dead,  and  he  knew  that  she 
was  dead.  He  knew  it  with  as  full  and  fixed  a 
sense  of  conviction  as  if  he  had  been  prepared  for 
it  by  months  of  anxiety.  He  did  not  ask  himself 
why  it  was  so.  He  did  not  ask  himself  by  what 
swift  and  cruel  disease — by  what  mysterious  acci- 
dent, this  dread  thing  had  come  to  pass.  He  only 
knew  that  she  was  dead;  and  that  all  the  joy,  the 
hope,  the  glory  of  life  was  gone  from  him  for  ever. 

A  long  time,  or  what  seemed  like  a  long  time, 
went  by  thus;  he  leaning  up  against  the  wall,  voice- 
less, tearless,  paralysed,  unable  to  think,  or  move, 
or  do  anything  but  stare  in  a  blank,  lost  way  at 
the  bed  on  which  lay  the  wreck  of  his  happiness. 

By-and-by — it  might  have  been  half  an  hour  or 
an  hour  later — he  became  dimly  conscious  of  a 
sound  of  lamentation;  of  the  presence  of  many 
persons  in  the  room;  of  being  led  away  like  a  child, 


120  THE   TRAGEDY   IN   THE 

and  placed  in  a  chair  beside  an  open  window; 
and  of  Margherita  kneeling  at  his  feet  and  covering 
his  hands  with  tears.  Then,  as  one  who  has  been 
stunned  by  some  murderous  blow,  he  recovered  by 
degrees  from  his  stupor. 

"Salimbeni,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

It  was  the  first  word  he  had  spoken. 

"We  have  sent  for  him,  Signore,"  sobbed  Mar- 
gherita.    "But— but— " 

He  lifted  his  hand,  and  turned  his  face  aside. 

"Hush!"  he  replied.     "I  know  it." 

Signor  Salimbeni  was  a  famous  Florentine  sur- 
geon who  lived  close  by  in  the  Piazza  Barberini, 
and  with  whom  Hugh  Girdlestone  had  been  on 
terms  of  intimacy  for  the  last  four  or  five  months. 
Almost  as  his  name  was  being  uttered,  he  arrived; 
— a  tall,  dark,  bright-eyed  man  of  about  forty  years 
of  age,  with  something  of  a  military  bearing.  His 
first  step  was  to  clear  the  place  of  intruders — of 
the  English  family  from  the  first  floor,  of  the 
Americans  from  the  second,  of  the  Italian  tenor 
and  his  wife,  and  of  the  servants  who  had  crowded 
up  en  masse  from  every  part  of  the  house.  He 
expelled  them  all,  civilly  but  firmly;  locked  the 
door  behind  the  last;  and  went  alone  into  the 
chamber  of  death.  Hugh  Girdlestone  followed  him, 
dull-eyed,  tongue-tied,  bewildered,  like  a  man  half 
roused  from  sleep. 

The  surgeon  bent  silently  over  the  corpse; 
turned  the  poor  white  face  to  the  light;  held  a 
mirror  to  the  lips;  touched  the  passive  hand;  lifted 
first  one  eyelid,  then  the  other;  and  felt  for  the  last 


PALAZZO   BARDELLO.  121 

lingering  spark  of  vital  heat  on  the  crown  of  the 
head.     Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  quite  hopeless,  my  friend,"  he  said  gently. 
"Life  has  been  extinct  for  some  two  hours  or  more." 

"But  the  cause?" 

Signor  Salimbeni  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Impossible  to  tell,"  he  replied,  "without  a 
proper  examination." 

The  widower  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
groaned  aloud. 

"Whether  the  seat  of  this  mischief  be  in  the 
brain,"  continued  Signor  Salimbeni,  "or  whether,  as 
I  am  more  inclined  to  suspect,  it  should  be  sought 
in  the  heart  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off  abruptly— so  abruptly,  and  with 
such  a  change  of  voice,  that  Hugh  Girdlestone  was 
startled  from  his  apathy.  He  looked  up,  and  saw 
the  surgeon  staring  down  with  a  face  of  ashy  horror 
at  the  corpse  upon  the  bed. 

"Dio!"  he  faltered.     "What  is  this?" 

He  had  laid  back  the  collar  of  the  nightdress 
.and  bared  the  beautiful  white  bosom  beneath;  and 
there,  just  above  the  region  of  the  heart,  like  a 
mere  speck  upon  a  surface  of  pure  marble,  was 
visible  a  tiny  puncture — a  spot  so  small,  so  in- 
significant, that  but  for  a  pale  violet  discoloration 
spreading  round  it  like  a  halo,  it  would  perhaps 
have  escaped  observation  altogether. 

"What  is  this?"   he   repeated.     "What   does   it 

mean?" 

•      Hugh  Girdlestone  answered  never  a  word,  but 

stood  in   stony  silence  with  his  eyes   fixed   on  the 


122  THE   TRAGEDY   IN  THE 

fatal  spot.     Then  he  stooped,  looked  into  it  more 
narrowly,   shuddered,   rose   once   again   to   his   full 
height,  and  less  with  his  breath  than  by  the  motion 
of  his  lips,  shaped  out  the  one  word: — 
"Murdered." 


PALAZZO   BARDELLO.  123 


CHAPTER  II. 

It  was  the  most  mysterious  crime  that  had  been 
committed  in  Rome  since  the  famous  murder  in 
the  Coliseum  about  seven  years  before.  The  whole 
city  rang  with  it.  Even  the  wretched  little  local 
newspapers,  the  Giornale  di Roma,  the  Diario  Romano, 
and  the  Vero  Amico  del  Popolo,  made  space,  amid 
the  more  pressing  claims  of  Church  festivals,  pro- 
vincial miracles,  and  the  reporting  of  homilies,  to 
detail  some  few  scanty  particulars  of  the  "fragedia 
deplorabile"  in  the  Palazzo  Bardello.  Each,  too, 
hinted  its  own  solution  to  the  enigma.  The  Diario 
inclined  to  the  suicidal  point  of  view;  the  Giornale. 
more  politically  wise  than  its  contemporaries,  pointed 
a  significant  finger  towards  Sardinia;  the  Vero  Amico, 
under  cover  of  a  cloud  of  fine  phrases,  insinuated 
a  suspicion  of  Hugh  Girdlestone  himself.  At  every 
table-d'hote  and  every  artist's  club,  at  the  public 
reading  rooms,  in  the  studios,  in  the  cafes,  and  at 
every  evening  party  throughout  Rome,  it  was  the 
universal  topic. 

In  the  meanwhile  such  feeble  efforts  as  it  is  in 
the  nature  of  a  Pontifical  Government  to  make  were 
put  forward  for  the  discovery  of  the  murderer.  A 
post-mortem  examination  was  appointed;  official 
consultations  were  held;  official  depositions  were 
drawn  up;  pompous  gendarmes  clanked  perpetually 


124  THE   TRAGEDY  IN  THE 

up  and  down  the  staircase  and  courtyard  of  the 
Palazzo  Bardello;  and  every  one  about  the  place 
who  could  possibly  be  supposed  to  have  anything 
to  say  upon  the  subject  was  summoned  to  give 
evidence.  But  in  vain.  Days  went  by,  weeks  went 
by,  and  the  mystery  remained  impenetrable  as  ever. 
Passing  shadows  of  suspicion  fell  here  and  there- 
on Margherita,  on  a  Corsican  courier  in  the  service 
of  the  American  family,  on  Hugh  Girdlestone;  but 
they  rested  scarcely  at  all,  and  vanished  away  as  a 
breath  from  a  surface  of  polished  steel. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Ethel  Girdlestone  was  laid  to 
rest  in  a  quiet  little  Roman  Catholic  cemetery  be- 
yond the  walls — a  lonely,  picturesque  spot,  over- 
looking the  valley  of  the  Tiber  and  the  mountains 
about  Fidenae.  A  plain  marble  cross  and  a  wreath 
of  immortelles  marked  the  place  of  her  grave.  For 
a  week  or  two  the  freshly-turned  mould  looked  drear 
and  desolate  under  the  Spring  sunshine;  but  the 
grass  soon  sprang  up  again,  and  the  wild  crocuses 
struck  root  and  blossomed  over  it;  and  by  that  time 
Rome  had  found  some  fresh  subject  for  gossip,  and 
the  fate  of  Ethel  Girdlestone  was  well  nigh  forgotten. 

There  was  one,  however,  who  forgot  nothing— 
who,  the  first  torpor  of  despair  once  past,  lived  only 
to  remember  and  avenge.  He  offered  an  enormous 
reward  for  the  apprehension  of  the  unknown  mur- 
derer. He  papered  Rome  with  placards.  He  gave 
himself  up,  body  and  brain,  to  the  task  of  discovery, 
and  felt  that  for  this,  and  this  only,  he  could  con- 
tinue to  bear  the  burden  of  life.  As  the  chances  of 
success  seemed  to  grow  daily  more  and  more  un- 


PALAZZO   BARDELLO.  I  25 

certain,  his  purpose  but  became  the  more  assured. 
He  would  have  justice;  meaning  by  justice,  blood 
for  blood,  a  life  for  a  life.  And  this  at  all  costs,  at 
all  risks,  at  all  sacrifices.  He  took  a  solemn  oath 
to  devote,  if  need  be,  all  the  best  years  of  his  life, 
all  the  vigour  of  his  mind,  all  the  strength  of  his 
manhood,  to  this  one  desperate  end.  For  it  he  was 
ready  to  endure  any  privation,  or  to  incur  any  per- 
sonal danger.  For  it,  could  his  purpose  have  been 
thereby  assured,  he  would  have  gladly  died  at  any 
hour  of  the  day  or  night.  As  it  was,  he  trained 
himself  to  the  work  with  a  patience  that  was  never 
wearied. 

He  studied  to  acquire  the  dialects,  and  to  fami- 
liarise himself  with  the  habits,  of  the  lowest  quarters 
of  Rome.  He  frequented  the  small  wine-shops  of 
the  Trastevere  and  the  Rione  St.  Angelo.  He 
mastered  the  intricacies  of  the  Ghetto.  He  haunted 
the  street  fountains,  the  puppet-shows,  and  the  quays 
of  Ripa  Grande.  Wherever,  in  short,  the  Roman 
people  were  to  be  found  in  fra  di  loro,  whether 
gossiping,  gaming,  quarrelling,  or  holiday-making, 
there  Hugh  Girdlestone  made  his  way,  mingled  with 
them,  listened,  observed,  and  waited  like  a  trapper 
for  his  prey.  It  was  a  task  of  untold  peril  and  dif- 
ficulty, made  all  the  more  perilous  and  difficult  by 
the  fact  of  his  being  a  foreigner.  Fluent  Italian  as 
he  was,  it  was  still  not  possible  that  he  should  per- 
fectly master  all  the  slang  of  the  Rione,  play  at  morra 
and  zecchinetta  as  one  to  the  manner  born,  or  be 
at  all  times  equal  to  the  part  which  he  had  under- 
taken.   He  was  liable  at  any  moment  to  betray  him- 


126  THE   TRAGEDY   IN   THE 

self,  and  to  be  poniarded  for  a  spy.  He  knew  each 
time  he  ventured  into  certain  quarters  of  the  city 
that  his  body  might  be  floating  down  towards  Ostia 
before  daybreak,  or  that  he  might  quite  probably 
disappear  from  that  moment,  and  never  be  seen  or 
heard  of  more.  Yet,  strong  in  his  purpose  and  reck- 
less of  his  life,  he  went,  and  came,  and  went  again, 
penetrating  into  haunts  where  the  police  dared  not 
set  foot,  and  assuming  in  these  excursions  the  dress 
and  dialect  of  a  Roman  "rough"  of  the  lowest  order. 

Thus  disguised,  and  armed  with  a  deadly  patience 
that  knew  neither  weariness  nor  discouragement, 
Hugh  Girdlestone  pursued  his  quest.  How,  despite 
every  precaution,  he  contrived  to  escape  detection 
was  matter  for  daily  wonder,  even  to  himself.  He 
owed  his  safety,  however,  in  great  measure  to  a 
sullen  manner  and  a  silent  tongue — perhaps  in  some 
degree  to  his  southern  complexion;  to  his  black 
beard  and  swarthy  skin,  and  the  lowering  fire  in 
his  eyes. 

Thus  the  Spring  passed  away,  the  Summer  heats 
came  on,  and  the  wealthier  quarters  of  Rome  were, 
as  usual,  emptied  of  their  inhabitants.  The  foreign 
visitors  went  first;  then  the  Italian  nobility;  and  then 
all  those  among  the  professional  and  commercial 
classes  who  could  afford  the  healthful  luxury  of 
villeggiatura.  Meanwhile,  Hugh  Girdlestone  was  the 
only  remaining  lodger  in  the  Palazzo  Bardello.  Day 
by  day  he  lingered  on  in  the  deserted  city,  wander- 
ing through  the  burning  streets  and  piazzas,  and 
down  by  the  river-side,  where  the  very  air  was  heavy 
with  malaria. 


PALAZZO   BARDELLO.  1-27 

Night  after  night  he  perilled  life  and  limb  in  the 
wine-shops  of  the  Trastevere;  and  still  in  vain.  Still 
the  murderer  remained  undiscovered  and  the  mur- 
dered unavenged;  still  no  clue,  nor  vestige  of  a  clue, 
turned  up.  The  police,  having  grown  more  and 
more  languid  in  the  work  of  investigation,  ceased, 
at  last,  from  further  efforts.  The  placards  became 
defaced,  or  were  pasted  over  with  fresh  ones.  By- 
and-by  the  whole  story  faded  from  people's  memories; 
and  save  by  one  who,  sleeping  or  waking,  knew  no 
other  thought,  the  famous  "tragedia  deplorabile"  was 
quite  forgotten. 

Thus  the  glowing  Summer  and  sultry  Autumn 
dragged  slowly  by.  The  popular  festivals  on  Monte 
Testaccio  were  celebrated  and  over;  the  harvest  was 
gathered  in;  the  virulence  of  the  malaria  abated; 
the  artists  nocked  back  to  their  studios,  the  middle- 
class  Romans  to  their  homes,  the  nobles  to  their 
palaces.  Then  the  Pope  returned  from  Castel  Gon- 
dolfo,  and  the  annual  tide  of  English  and  American 
visitors  set  in.  By  the  first  Sunday  in  Advent,  Rome 
was  already  tolerably  well  filled;  and  on  the  even- 
ing of  that  same  Sunday  an  event  took  place  which 
threw  the  whole  city  into  confusion,  and  caused  a 
clamour  of  dismay  even  louder  than  that  which 
followed  the  murder  of  Ethel  Girdlestone  ten  months 
before. 


128  THE   TRAGEDY   IN   THE 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  knot  of  loungers  stood,  talking  eagerly,  round 
the  stove  in  Piale's  reading-room.  It  was  on  the 
Monday  morning  following  the  first  Sunday  in  Ad- 
vent, and  still  quite  early.  None  were  reading,  or 
attempting  to  read.  The  newspapers  lay  unopened 
on  the  tables.  Even  the  last  Times  contained  no- 
thing so  exciting  as  the  topic  then  under  discus- 
sion. 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  and  expected  that  the  Govern- 
ment will  bestir  itself  in  earnest  this  time,"  said  a 
bald-headed  Englishman,  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  stove. 

"Hope  is  one  thing,  my  dear  sir,  and  expecta- 
tion is  another,"  replied  his  nearest  neighbour. 
"When  you  have  lived  in  Rome  as  long  as  myself, 
you  will  cease  to  expect  anything  but  indifference 
from  the  bureaucracy  of  the  Papal  States." 

"But  a  crime  of  this  enormity  .  .  ." 

"Is  more  easily  hushed  up  than  investigated, 
especially  when  the  sufferers  are  in  a  humble  sta- 
tion of  life,  and  cannot  offer  a  large  reward  to  the 
police." 

"Mr.  Somerville  puts  the  question  quite  fairly," 
observed  another  gentleman.  "There  is  nothing 
like  public  spirit  to  be  found  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  His  Holiness's  dominions." 


PALAZZO  BARDELLO.  120, 

"Nor  justice  either,  it  would  seem,  unless  one 
can  pay  for  it  handsomely,"  added  another. 

"Nay,  your  long  purse  is  not  always  your  short 
cut  to  justice,  even  in  Rome,"  said  Mr.  Somerville. 
"There  was  that  case  of  the  young  bride  who  was 
murdered  last  Winter  in  the  Palazzo  Bardello.  Her 
husband  offered  an  immense  reward — a  thousand 
guineas  English,  I  believe — and  yet  the  mystery  was 
never  cleared  up." 

"Ay,  that  Palazzo  Bardello  murder  was  a  tragic 
affair,"  said  the  bald-headed  Englishman;  "more 
tragic,  on  the  whole,  than  .  .  .  ." 

A  sudden  change  of  expression  swept  over  his 
face,  and  he  broke  off  in  the  midst  of  his  sen- 
tence. 

"By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  feel  as  if  I  were 
on  the  brink  of  a  discovery." 

"Plunge  away,  then,  my  dear  fellow,"  laughed 
Somerville.     "What  is  it?" 

"Well,  then — what  if  both  these  murders  had 
been  committed  by  the  same  hand1?" 

"Most  unlikely,  I  should  think,"  said  one. 

"Altogether  improbable,"  added  another. 

"Do  you  opine  that  Othello  smothered  the 
princes  in  the  Tower?"  asked  a  third. 

"Listen  to  my  premises  before  you  laugh  at  my 
conclusions,"  said  he  of  the  bald  head,  obviously 
nettled  by  the  general  incredulity.  "Look  at  the 
details:  they  are  almost  identical.  In  each  case  the 
victim  is  stabbed  to  the  heart;  in  each  case  the 
wound  is  almost  imperceptibly  small.  There  is  no 
effusion  of  blood;   no   robbery  is   committed;   and 

The  Black  Forest.  9 


130  THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE 

no  trace  of  the  assassin  remains.  I'd  stake  my 
head  upon  it  that  these  are  not  purely  accidental 
coincidences!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  a  gentleman,  who 
till  now  had  been  standing  by  a  window  at  the 
further  end  of  the  room  with  his  back  to  the 
speakers;  "but  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  inform 
me  in  what  part  of  Rome  this — this  murder  has 
been  committed1?" 

"Down,  I  believe,  in  one  of  the  narrow  lanes 
near  the  theatre  of  Marcellus." 

"And  the  victim  is  a  Roman  subject1?" 

"The  child  of  Roman  parents." 

"A  child!" 

"A  child,  sir;  a  little  fellow  of  only  eleven 
years  of  age ,  and  the  son  of  a  baker  named  Tom- 
maseo." 

The  stranger  took  out  his  note-book. 

"Near  the  theatre  of  Marcellus,"  he  said,  scrib- 
bling a  rapid  entry. 

"Just  so — a  most  shocking  and  mysterious  af- 
fair!" 

"And  the  name,  Tommaseo.  Many  thanks. 
Good  morning." 

With  this  he  lifted  his  hat,  strode  from  the 
room,  and  vanished  without  another  word. 

"Humph!  an  abrupt  sort  of  fellow,"  said  the 
first  speaker.     "I  wonder  who  he  is?" 

"He  looks  horribly  ill,"  said  another. 

"I've  met  him  before,"  mused  Somerville.  "I 
remember  the  face  quite  well,  but  the  name  has 
altogether  escaped  my  memory.     Good  heavens!  it 


PALAZZO  BARDELLO.  13I 

is  Mr.  Girdlestone — the  husband  of  that  very  lady 
who  was  murdered  in  the  Palazzo  Bardello!" 

In  the  meanwhile  Hugh  Girdlestone  was  swing- 
ing along  at  his  tremendous  pace  towards  that 
quarter  where  the  murder  had  been  perpetrated. 
He  found  the  house  without  difficulty,  at  the  end 
of  a  narrow  Vicolo  about  half-way  between  the 
Portico  of  Octavia  and  the  Theatre  of  Marcellus. 
There  was  a  crowd  before  the  door,  and  a  dis- 
mounted dragoon  pacing  up  and  down  with  his 
sabre  under  his  arm.  Over  the  shop  window  was 
suspended  a  board,  on  which  were  inscribed,  in 
faded  red  letters,  the  words  "Antico  Forno;"  and 
at  this  window,  where  still  lay  unsold  some  three 
or  four  stale  rolls  of  Saturday's  baking,  an  old 
woman  every  now  and  then  made  her  appear- 
ance, and  addressed  wild  lamentations  to  the  by- 
standers. 

"Alas!  alas!"  she  cried,  tossing  her  arms  aloft 
like  a  withered  Cassandra.  "He  was  the  light  of 
our  eyes!  He  was  our  darling,  our  sunshine,  our 
pride!  He  was  as  good  as  an  angel.  He  never 
told  a  lie  in  his  life.  Everybody  loved  him!  At 
this  hour  yesterday  his  laugh  made  music  in  the 
house,  and  our  hearts  leaped  for  joy  to  hear  it. 
We  shall  never  hear  that  voice  again — never,  never 
more,  till  we  hear  it  in  heaven!  He  is  dead!  He 
is  dead,  and  the  blessed  Virgin  has  him  in  her  care. 
But  his  murderer  lives.  Oh  Dw,  hear  it!  Hear  it, 
O  blessed  mother  of  God!  Hear  it,  thou  blessed 
Saint  Stefano!    Overtake  him  with  your  vengeance! 

9* 


132  THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE 

Let  his  tongue  wither,  and  his  eyes  melt  away  in 
blood!  Let  his  hands  and  feet  rot  upon  his  body! 
Let  his  flesh  drop  piece-meal  from  his  bones!  Let 
him  die  unconfessed  and  unabsolved,  and  give  him 
over  to  the  everlasting  fire!" 

"No  stranger  is  allowed  to  pass,  Signore,"  said 
the  dragoon,  interposing  his  person  between  the 
Englishman  and  the  door. 

But  Hugh  Girdlestone  had  only  to  open  his 
pocket-book  and  show  a  certain  slip  of  paper  signed 
by  the  chief  of  the  police.  It  was  a  magical  docu- 
ment, and  admitted  him  to  all  kinds  of  forbidden 
places. 

He  went  in.  In  the  outer  room,  or  shop,  he 
found  some  eight  or  ten  persons  assembled,  ap- 
parently relatives  and  friends  of  the  family;  in  a 
darkened  room  beyond,  the  body  of  a  young  child 
was  laid  out  upon  a  narrow  pallet  strewn  with  im- 
mortelles and  set  round  with  lighted  candles.  The 
father,  a  sickly-looking  man,  with  eyes  red  and 
swollen  from  weeping,  was  sitting  upon  a  low  stool, 
in  a  farther  corner  of  the  room,  his  elbows  resting 
on  his  knees,  and  his  chin  upon  his  hands,  smok- 
ing drearily.  The  mother  lay  crouched  on  the  floor 
beside  the  bed,  in  a  stupor  of  misery. 

Hugh  Girdlestone  apologised  for  his  intrusion 
with  a  word  or  two  of  explanation  and  sympathy. 
The  woman  never  stirred.  The  man  took  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  rose  respectfully,  and  replied  to 
such  questions  as  his  visitor  thought  fit  to  put  to 
him. 

The  child's  name,  he  said,  was  Stefan o — Stefa- 


PALAZZO  BARDELLO.  1 33 

nino,  they  used  to  call  him.  He  was  their  only- 
child,  and  would  have  been  eleven  years  of  age  in 
the  course  of  a  few  more  days.  He  was  a  par- 
ticularly good  boy,  and  as  clever  as  he  was  good. 
He  was  a  great  favourite  with  the  Padre  Lorenzo — 
the  famous  Padre  Lorenzo  of  whom  the  Signore 
had  doubtless  heard.  This  Padre  Lorenzo  had 
taken  an  especial  affection  for  the  little  Stefanino, 
and  had  himself  prepared  the  boy  for  his  first  com- 
munion. And  he  took  it  only  yesterday  morning — 
took  it  at  the  church  of  II  Gesu,  from  the  hands  of 
Monsignore  di  Montalto.  It  was  a  long  ceremony. 
There  were  six  hundred  children  present,  and  their 
Stefanino  was  among  the  last  who  went  up.  When 
it  was  over  they  came  home  and  dined,  and  after 
dinner  they  went  for  a  walk  on  the  Monte  Pincio. 
Coming  back  they  hired  a  vettura,  for  the  child  was 
very  tired;  and  as  soon  as  they  reached  home  his 
mother  gave  him  a  cup  of  soup  and  a  piece  of 
bread,  and  put  him  to  bed.  This  was  about  half- 
past  six  o'clock. 

A  little  later  in  the  evening — perhaps  about  a 
quarter  past  seven — he  and  his  wife  and  his  wife's 
mother  went  over  to  see  a  neighbour  in  the  Via 
Fiumara  close  by.  They  left  the  child  asleep. 
They  had  often  left  him  so  before,  especially  on 
Sunday  evenings,  and  no  harm  had  come  of  it. 
The  wife  of  the  shoemaker  who  occupied  the  first 
floor  had  promised  to  listen  if  he  should  wake  or 
call  for  anything;  and  she  was  a  good  soul,  and 
had  children  of  her  own.  Ebbene,  they  stayed  out 
somewhat  late — later  than  usual,  for  the  neighbour 


134  THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE 

in  the  Via  Fiumara  had  her  married  daughter 
spending  the  evening  with  her,  and  they  stayed 
gossiping  till  past  ten  o'clock.  Then  they  came 
home.  The  shoemaker  and  his  family  were  gone 
to  bed;  but  the  house-door  was  left,  as  usual,  on 
the  latch,  and  the  matches  and  candle  were  in  their 
accustomed  corner  in  the  passage.  So  they  lit  the 
candle,  and  fastened  the  door,  and  stole  in  very 
softly;  for  little  Stefanino  was  a  light  sleeper,  and 
apt  to  lie  awake  for  hours  if  accidentally  roused. 

However,  this  time,  although  the  grandmother 
stumbled  over  the  scaldino  on  first  going  into  the 
room,  he  never  turned  or  stirred.  He  slept  in  a 
little  crib  beside  their  own  bed,  and  after  a  few 
minutes  they  went  to  look  at  him.  He  was  very 
pale;  but  then  he  had  gone  through  a  day  of  great 
fatigue  and  excitement,  and  was  unusually  tired. 
They  never  dreamed,  at  first  sight,  that  all  was  not 
well  with  him.  It  was  his  mother  who  discovered 
it.  She  first  saw  that  no  breath  parted  his  dear 
lips  —  she  first  touched  his  cheek,  and  found  it 
cold! 

When  he  reached  this  point  in  his  narrative,  the 
poor  baker  fairly  broke  down,  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands. 

"Eccolo,  Signore,"  he  sobbed.  "He  was  our 
only  little  one!" 

"He  is  with  God,"  said  Hugh  Girdlestone. 

He  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say.  He  was 
not  a  religious  man.  He  was,  on  the  contrary,  a 
worldly,  a  careless,  perhaps  even  a  somewhat  hard 
man;   and   he  had  no  words  of  ready  comfort  and 


PALAZZO   BARDELLO.  I  35 

sympathy  at  command.  But  he  was  moved,  and 
his  emotion  showed  itself  in  his  voice. 

"Alas!  God  did  not  want  him  so  much  as  we 
wanted  him,"  was  the  naive  reply. 

The  mother,  who  till  now  had  lain  huddled  on 
the  floor,  apparently  unconscious  of  all  that  was 
going  forward,  here  suddenly  lifted  up  her  head. 

"The  good  God  and  our  Blessed  Lady  had  him 
always,"  she  said,  hoarsely.  "He  was  in  their  hands 
from  the  hour  when  I  brought  him  into  the  world, 
and  he  is  not  more  theirs  in  heaven  than  he  was 
theirs  on  earth.  But  they  did  not  call  him  from 
us.  It  is  not  God  but  man  who  has  bereaved  us, 
and  left  us  desolate.     Behold!" 

And  with  this  she  rose  to  her  feet,  turned  down 
the  sheet,  and  uncovered  the  wound — just  such  a 
tiny  puncture,  with  just  such  a  ghastly  halo  spread- 
ing round  it,  as  Hugh  Girdlestone  had  awful  cause 
to  remember. 

He  could  not  bear  to  look  upon  it.  He  shud- 
dered and  turned  his  face  aside. 

"Is  there — is  there  anyone  whom  you  suspect?" 
he  faltered. 

"No  one." 

"Have  you  an  enemy1?" 

The  baker  shook  his  head. 

"I  think  not,"  he  replied.  "I  am  at  peace  with 
all  my  neighbours." 

"Was  no  one  seen  to  enter  the  house  in  your 
absence?" 

"No  one,  Signore." 

"Did  the  shoemaker's  wife  hear  no  sound?" 


I36  THE   TRAGEDY   IN  THE 

"None  whatever." 

"And  you  have  been  robbed  of  nothing1?" 

"Not  to  the  value  of  a  quattrino." 

The  Englishman's  heart  sank  within  him.  He 
felt  profoundly  discouraged.  The  double  mystery 
seemed  doubly  impenetrable,  and  his  double  task 
doubly  hopeless.  He  turned  again  to  the  little  bed, 
and  took  one  long,  last  look  at  the  waxen  figure 
with  its  folded  hands  and  funeral  chaplets. 

"What  is  this?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  a  white 
silk  scarf  fringed  with  gold  which  lay  folded  across 
the  feet  of  the  corpse. 

The  mother  snatched  it  up,  and  covered  it  with 
passionate  kisses. 

"  It  is  the  scarf  he  wore  yesterday  when  he  went 
up  to  take  his  first  communion,"  she  replied.  "The 
Padre  Lorenzo  gave  it  to  him.  Alas!  alas!  how 
beautiful  he  looked,  dressed  in  all  his  best,  with 
new  buckles  in  his  shoes  and  this  scarf  tied  over 
one  shoulder!  The  little  angels  painted  over  the 
altar  did  not  look  more  beautiful!" 

"The  Padre  Lorenzo!"  repeated  Hugh  Girdle- 
stone.  "He  taught  the  child,  you  say,  and  loved 
him.     Does  he  know  this1?" 

"Yes,  he  knows  it." 

It  was  the  man  who  replied.  The  woman  had 
sunk  down  again  upon  the  floor,  and  hidden  her 
face. 

"Has  he  been  to  see  you  since?" 

"He  sent  a  priest  this  morning  to  pray  for  the 
repose  of  our  little  one's  soul." 

"Humph!" 


PALAZZO  BARDFXLO.  137 

Tommaseo's  quick  Italian  ear  detected  the  shade 
of  disapproval  in  his  visitor's  voice. 

"The  Padre  Lorenzo  is  a  saint,"  he  said,  eagerly. 
"All  Rome  flocks  to  hear  him  preach." 

"Where  is  he  to  be  found,  amico?" 

"At  the  convent  of  the  Gesuiti  close  by." 

"So!— a  Jesuit?" 

"A  Jesuit,  Signore;  so  eloquent,  so  learned,  so 
holy,  and  yet  so  young— so  young!  A  holier  man 
does  not  live.  Though  his  body  still  walks  upon 
earth,  his  soul  already  lives  in  heaven." 

"I  should  like  to  see  him,"  mused  the  English- 
man. "He  might  suggest  something — these  Jesuits 
are  keen  and  far-sighted;  at  all  events,  it  is  worth 
the  effort.  I  will  go  round  to  the  Gesuiti,  amico,  to 
hear  if  your  good  padre  can  help  us." 

"Our  blessed  Lady  and  all  the  saints  reward  you, 
dear  Signore!"  exclaimed  the  poor  father,  humbly 
attempting  to  kiss  the  hand  which  Hugh  Girdle- 
stone  extended  to  him  at  parting. 

But  the  Englishman  snatched  it  hastily  away. 

"Nay,  nay,"  he  said,  roughly.  "I  have  my 
own  motive  —  my  own  wrong.  No  thanks  —  no 
thanks!" 

And  with  a  quick  gesture,  half  deprecation,  half 
farewell,  he  was  gone. 


138  THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Vast,  sombre,  dimly  lighted,  splendid  with  pre- 
cious marbles  and  rich  in  famous  altar-pieces,  the 
church  of  II  Gesu  wore  that  day  an  aspect  of  even 
gloomier  grandeur  than  usual.  Before  the  chapel  of 
Saint  Ignazio,  a  considerable  crowd  was  assembled. 
All  were  listening  devoutly.  The  dropping  of  a 
pin  might  have  been  heard  among  them.  There 
had  been  no  service.  There  was  no  music.  No 
perfume  of  incense  lingered  on  the  air.  It  was 
simply  a  week-day  discourse  that  was  in  process  of 
delivery,  and  the  preacher  was  Padre  Lorenzo. 

As  Hugh  Girdlestone  went  up  the  steps  and 
lifted  the  heavy  leathern  portiere,  he  suddenly  re- 
membered how,  on  that  other  fatal  morning  of  the 
thirteenth  of  February  last,  he  had  paused  upon 
those  very  steps,  listening  to  the  chanting  and  half- 
disposed  to  enter.  Why  had  he  not  followed  that 
impulse?  He  could  not  tell.  Why  need  the  coin- 
cidence startle  him  now1?  He  could  not  tell  that, 
either.  It  was  but  a  coincidence,  commonplace  and 
natural  enough — and  yet  it  troubled  him. 

He  went  in. 

The  chapel  was  small  and  held  but  few  seats, 
and  the  crowd  spread  far  out  into  the  body  of  the 
church,  so  that  the  new  comer  had  to  take  up  his 
position  on  the  outskirts  of  the  congregation.   From 


PALAZZO   BARDELLO.  139 

this  place  he  could  hear,  but  not  see  the  preacher. 
Finding  it  impossible,  however,  to  work  his  way- 
nearer  without  disturbing  others,  he  contented  him- 
self with  listening. 

The  voice  of  the  preacher  was  low  and  clear, 
and  sounded  like  the  voice  of  a  young  man;  but  it 
rose  every  now  and  then  to  a  higher  key,  and  that 
higher  key  jarred  somewhat  harshly  upon  the  ear. 
The  subject  of  his  discourse  was  death.  He  held  it  up 
to  his  hearers  from  every  point  of  view — as  a  terror; 
as  a  reward;  as  a  punishment;  as  a  hope  beside  which 
all  other  hopes  were  but  as  the  shadows  of  shadows. 
He  compared  the  last  moments  of  the  just  man 
with  those  of  the  sinner.  He  showed  under  what 
circumstances  death  was  robbed  of  its  sting  and 
the  grave  of  its  victory.  To  the  soldier  falling  on 
the  field,  to  the  martyr  consuming  at  the  stake, 
death  was  glory;  to  the  sick  and  the  heartbroken  it 
was  peace;  to  the  philosopher,  infinite  knowledge; 
to  the  poor,  infinite  wealth;  to  all  faithful  Christians, 
joy  everlasting.  Happy,  he  said,  were  those  who 
died  young,  for  they  had  not  lived  to  accumulate 
the  full  burden  of  human  sin;  happier  still  those 
who  died  penitent,  since  for  them  was  reserved  the 
special  mercy  of  Heaven. 

"But  what,"  he  said — and  here  his  voice  rose 
to  a  strange  pitch  of  tremulous  exaltation — "but 
what  shall  we  say  to  this  event  which  is  to-day  on 
every  man's  tongue1?  What  shall  we  say  to  the 
death  of  this  little  child — this  little  child  who  but 
yesterday  partook  of  his  first  communion  in  this 
very  church,   and  whose  fate  is  even  now  moving 


14°  THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE 

all  hearts  to  indignation  and  pity?     Was  ever  pity 
so   mistaken?     Was   ever  death   so  happily  timed? 
In   the   first  bloom   of  his   innocence,   in  the  very 
moment  of  his  solemn  reception  into  the  bosom  of 
our  holy  Church,  sinless,  consecrated,  absolved,  he 
passed,  pure  as  an  angel,  into  the  presence  of  his 
Maker.     Had  he  lived  but  one  day  longer,  he  had 
been  less  pure.     Had  he  lived  to  his  full  term  of 
years,    who    shall    say    with  what  crimes   his   soul 
might   not   have  been  blackened?     He  might  have 
lived  to  become  a  heretic,  an  atheist,  a  blasphemer. 
He  might  have  died  with  all  his  sins  upon  his  head, 
an  outcast  upon  earth,  and  an  outcast  from  heaven! 
Who  then  shall  dare  to  pity  him?     Which  among 
us   shall   not  envy  him?     Has   he   not  gone   from 
earth  to    heaven,    clothed   in   a  wedding   garment, 
like  a  guest  to  the  banquet  of  the  saints?     Has  he 
not  gone  with   the   chaplet  on  his  brow,   the  ring 
upon   his   finger,    the   perfume   of  the   incense   yet 
clinging   to   his   hair,   the  wine  of  Christ  yet  fresh 
upon    his    lips?     Silence,    then,     Oh    ye    of    little 
faith !  Why  grieve  that  another  voice  is  given  to  the 
heavenly  choir?     Why  lament  that  another  martyr 
is  added  to  the  noble  army  of  the  Lord?     Let  us 
rejoice    rather    than  weep.      Let  our  requiems   be 
changed    for    songs    of    praise    and    thanksgiving. 
Shall  we  pity  him  that  he  is  beyond  the  reach  of 
sorrow?      Shall   we    shudder    at   the   fate  that  has 
given    him   to   Paradise?      Shall   we   even   dare   to 
curse   the   hand   that  sent   him   thither?      May   not 
that  very  hand  have  been  consecrated  to  the  task? 
— have  been  guided  by  the  finger  of  God? — have 


PALAZZO  BARDELLO.  I4I 

been  inspired  by  a  strength a  wisdom 

no  murderer;  but  a  priest a  priest  of  the 

tabernacle it  was  the  voice  of  God 

a  voice  from  Heaven saying " 

He  faltered — became  inarticulate — stopped. 

A  sudden  confusion  fell  upon  the  congregation; 
a  sudden  murmur  rose  and  filled  the  church.  In 
an  instant  all  were  moving,  speaking,  gesticulating; 
in  an  instant  Hugh  Girdlestone  was  pushing  his 
way  towards  the  chapel. 

And  the  preacher"?  Tall,  slender,  wild-eyed, 
looking  utterly  helpless  and  bewildered,  he  stood 
before  his  hearers,  unable,  as  it  seemed,  to  speak 
or  think.  He  looked  quite  young — about  twenty- 
eight,  or  it  might  be  thirty  years,  of  age — but  worn 
and  haggard,  as  one  that  had  prayed  and  fasted 
overmuch.  Seeing  Hugh  Girdlestone  push  through 
the  crowd  and  stand  suddenly  before  him,  he  shrank 
back  like  a  hunted  creature,  and  began  trembling 
violently. 

"At  last!  at  last!"  gasped  the  Englishman.  "Con- 
fess it,  murderer;  confess  it,  before  I  strike  you 
dead  with  my  own  hands!" 

The  priest  put  his  hand  to  his  head.  His  lips 
moved,  but  no  utterance  came. 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?"  continued  Hugh,  in 
a  deep,  hoarse  voice  that  trembled  with  hatred. 
"Do  you  know  who  I  am"?  I  am  the  husband  of 
Ethel  Girdlestone — that  Ethel  Girdlestone  who  used 
to  come  to  this  very  church  to  confess  to  you — to 
you,  who  slew  her  in  her  bed  as  you  yesterday  slew 


142  THE   TRAGEDY   IN   THE 

a  little  child  that  loved  you.  Devil!  I  remember 
you  now.     Why  did  1  not  suspect  you  sooner?" 

"Hush!"  said  a  grave  voice  in  his  ear.  "Does 
the  Signore  forget  in  Whose  house  we  are1?" 

It  was  another  priest  of  the  order,  who  had  just 
come  upon  the  scene. 

"I  forget  nothing,"  replied  the  Englishman. 
"Bear  witness,  all  present,  that  I  charge  this  man 
with  murder!" 

The  new  comer  turned  to  tnr  congregation. 

"And  bear  witness,  all  present,"  he  added 
solemnly,  with  uplifted  hand,  "that  the  Padre  Lo- 
renzo is  responsible  for  neither  his  words  nor  his 

deeds.     He  is  mad." 

***** 

And  so  it  was.  Young,  eloquent,  learned,  an 
impassioned  orator,  and  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
ornaments  of  his  order,  the  Padre  Lorenzo  had  for 
more  than  two  years  betrayed  symptoms  of  insanity. 
He  had  committed  some  few  extravagancies  from 
time  to  time,  and  had  broken  down  once  or  twice 
in  a  discourse;  but  it  had  never  been  supposed 
that  his  eccentricity  had  danger  in  it.  Of  the 
murder  of  Ethel  Girdlestone  no  one  had  ever  for 
one  moment  dreamed  that  he  was  guilty.  With 
the  instinctive  cunning  of  madness  he  had  kept  his 
first  secret  well.  But  he  could  not  keep  the  second. 
Having  ventured  on  the  perilous  subject,  he  be- 
trayed himself. 

From  that  hour  he  became  a  raving  maniac, 
and  disappeared  for  ever  from  the  world.  By  what 
motive  his  distempered  brain  had  been  moved  to 


PALAZZO   BARDELLO.  1 43 

the  commission  of  these  crimes,  and  where  he  had 
obtained  the  long  slender  dagger,  scarcely  thicker 
than  a  needle,  with  which  they  were  perpetrated, 
were  secrets  never  discovered;  but  it  was  thought 
by  some  of  those  who  knew  him  best  that  he  had 
slain  the  child  to  save  his  soul  from  possible  sin 
and  send  him  straight  to  Heaven.  As  for  Ethel 
Girdlestone,  it  was  probable  that  he  had  murdered 
her  from  some  similar  motive — most  likely  to  pre- 
serve her  against  the  danger  of  perversion  by  a 
heretic  husband. 

Hugh  Girdlestone  lives,  famous  and  prosperous, 
learned  in  the  law,  and  not  unlikely,  it  is  said,  to 
attain  the  woolsack  by-and-by.  But  he  lives  a 
solitary  life,  and  the  gloom  that  fell  upon  his  youth 
overshadows  all  his  prosperity.  He  will  never  marry 
again. 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 


The  Black  Forest.  I0 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  events  which  I  am  about  to  relate  took 
place  between  nine  and  ten  years  ago.  Sebastopol 
had  fallen  in  the  early  Spring;  the  peace  of  Paris 
had  been  concluded  since  March;  our  commercial 
relations  with  the  Russian  empire  were  but  recently 
renewed;  and  I,  returning  home  after  my  first  north- 
ward journey  since  the  war,  was  well  pleased  with 
the  prospect  of  spending  the  month  of  December 
under  the  hospitable  and  thoroughly  English  roof 
of  my  excellent  friend  Jonathan  Jelf,  Esquire,  of 
Dumbleton  Manor,  Clayborough,  East  Anglia.  Tra- 
velling in  the  interests  of  the  well-known  firm  in 
which  it  is  my  lot  to  be  a  junior  partner,  I  had 
been  called  upon  to  visit  not  only  the  capitals  of 
Russia  and  Poland,  but  had  found  it  also  necessary 
to  pass  some  weeks  among  the  trading  ports  of  the 
Baltic;  whence  it  came  that  the  year  was  already 
far  spent  before  I  again  set  foot  on  English  soil, 
and  that  instead  of  shooting  pheasants  with  him, 
as  I  had  hoped,  in  October,  I  came  to  be  my 
friend's  guest  during  the  more  genial  Christmas- 
tide. 

io» 


I48  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

My  voyage  over,  and  a  few  days  given  up  to 
business  in  Liverpool  and  London,  I  hastened  down 
to  Clayborough  with  all  the  delight  of  a  schoolboy 
whose  holidays  are  at  hand.  My  way  lay  by  the 
Great  East  Anglian  line  as  far  as  Clayborough 
station,  where  I  was  to  be  met  by  one  of  the 
Dumbleton  carriages  and  conveyed  across  the  re- 
maining nine  miles  of  country.  It  was  a  foggy 
afternoon,  singularly  warm  for  the  fourth  of  De- 
cember, and  I  had  arranged  to  leave  London  by 
the  4.15  express.  The  early  darkness  of  Winter 
had  already  closed  in;  the  lamps  were  lighted  in 
the  carriages;  a  clinging  damp  dimmed  the  win- 
dows, adhered  to  the  door-handles,  and  pervaded 
all  the  atmosphere;  while  the  gas  jets  at  the  neigh- 
bouring bookstand  diffused  a  luminous  haze  that 
only  served  to  make  the  gloom  of  the  terminus 
more  visible.  Having  arrived  some  seven  minutes 
before  the  starting  of  the  train,  and,  by  the  conni- 
vance of  the  guard,  taken  sole  possession  of  an 
empty  compartment,  I  lighted  my  travelling  lamp, 
made  myself  particularly  snug,  and  settled  down  to 
the  undisturbed  enjoyment  of  a  book  and  a  cigar. 
Great,  therefore,  was  my  disappointment  when,  at 
the  last  moment,  a  gentleman  came  hurrying  along 
the  platform,  glanced  into  my  carriage,  opened  the 
locked  door  with  a  private  key,  and  stepped  in. 

It  struck  me  at  the  first  glance  that  I  had  seen 
him  before — a  tall,  spare  man,  thin-lipped,  light- 
eyed,  with  an  ungraceful  stoop  in  the  shoulders, 
and  scant  grey  hair  worn  somewhat  long  upon  the 
collar.     He  carried  a  light  waterproof  coat,  an  urn- 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  1 49 

brella,  and  a  large  brown  japanned  deed-box,  which 
last  he  placed  under  the  seat.  This  done,  he  felt 
carefully  in  his  breast-pocket,  as  if  to  make  certain 
of  the  safety  of  his  purse  or  pocket-book;  laid  his 
umbrella  in  the  netting  overhead;  spread  the  water- 
proof across  his  knees;  and  exchanged  his  hat  for 
a  travelling  cap  of  some  Scotch  material.  By  this 
time  the  train  was  moving  out  of  the  station, 
and  into  the  faint  grey  of  the  wintry  twilight  be- 
yond. 

I  now  recognized  my  companion.  I  recognized 
him  from  the  moment  when  he  removed  his  hat 
and  uncovered  the  lofty,  furrowed  and  somewhat 
narrow  brow  beneath.  I  had  met  him,  as  I  dis- 
tinctly remembered,  some  three  years  before,  at  the 
very  house  for  which,  in  all  probability,  he  was 
now  bound  like  myself.  His  name  was  Dwerri- 
house;  he  was  a  lawyer  by  profession;  and,  if  I  was 
not  greatly  mistaken,  was  first  cousin  to  the  wife  of 
my  host.  I  knew  also  that  he  was  a  man  eminently 
"well  to  do,"  both  as  regarded  his  professional  and 
private  means.  The  Jelfs  entertained  him  with  that 
sort  of  observant  courtesy  which  falls  to  the  lot  of 
the  rich  relation;  the  children  made  much  of  him; 
and  the  old  butler,  albeit  somewhat  surly  "to  the 
general,"  treated  him  with  deference.  I  thought, 
observing  him  by  the  vague  mixture  of  lamplight 
and  twilight,  that  Mrs.  Jelfs  cousin  looked  all  the 
worse  for  the  three  years'  wear  and  tear  which  had 
gone  over  his  head  since  our  last  meeting.  He  was 
very  pale,  and  had  a  restless  light  in  his  eye  that  I 
did   not  remember  to  have  observed  before.     The 


150  THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

anxious  lines,  too,  about  his  mouth  were  deepened, 
and  there  was  a  cavernous  hollow  look  about  his 
cheeks  and  temples  which  seemed  to  speak  of  sick- 
ness or  sorrow.  He  had  glanced  at  me  as  he  came 
in,  but  without  any  gleam  of  recognition  in  his  face. 
Now  he  glanced  again,  as  I  fancied,  somewhat 
doubtfully.  When  he  did  so  for  the  third  or  fourth 
time,  I  ventured  to  address  him. 

"Mr.  John  Dwerrihouse,  I  think1?" 

"That  is  my  name,"  he  replied. 

"I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  at  Dumble- 
ton  about  three  years  ago." 

Mr.  Dwerrihouse  bowed. 

"I  thought  I  knew  your  face,"  he  said.  "But 
your  name,  I  regret  to  say — " 

"Langford — William  Langford.  I  have  known 
Jonathan  Jelf  since  we  were  boys  together  at 
Merchant  Taylor's,  and  I  generally  spend  a  few 
weeks  at  Dumbleton  in  the  shooting  season.  I  sup- 
pose we  are  bound  for  the  same  destination?" 

"  Not  if  you  are  on  your  way  to  the  Manor,"  he 
replied.  "I  am  travelling  upon  business — rather 
troublesome  business,  too — whilst  you,  doubtless, 
have  only  pleasure  in  view." 

"Just  so.  I  am  in  the  habit  of  looking  forward 
to  this  visit  as  to  the  brightest  three  weeks  in  all 
the  year." 

"It  is  a  pleasant  house,"   said  Mr.  Dwerrihouse. 

"The  pleasantest  I  know." 

"  And  Jelf  is  thoroughly  hospitable." 

"The  best  and  kindest  fellow  in  the  world!" 

"They  have  invited  me  to  spend  Christmas  week 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  151 

with  them,"  pursued  Mr.  Dwerrihouse,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause. 

"And  you  are  coming?" 

"I  cannot  tell.  It  must  depend  on  the  issue  of 
this  business  which  I  have  in  hand.  You  have 
heard,  perhaps,  that  we  were  about  to  construct  a 
branch  line  from  Blackwater  to  Stockbridge." 

I  explained  that  I  had  been  for  some  months 
away  from  England  and  had  therefore  heard  no- 
thing of  the  contemplated  improvement. 

Mr.  Dwerrihouse  smiled  complacently. 

"It  will  be  an  improvement,"  he  said;  "a  great 
improvement.  Stockbridge  is  a  flourishing  town, 
and  only  needs  a  more  direct  railway  communica- 
tion with  the  metropolis  to  become  an  important 
centre  of  commerce.  This  branch  was  my  own 
idea.  I  brought  the  project  before  the  board,  and 
have  myself  superintended  the  execution  of  it  up 
to  the  present  time." 

"You  are  an  East  Anglian  director,  I  presume?" 

"My  interest  in  the  company,"  replied  Mr. 
Dwerrihouse,  "is  threefold.  I  am  a  director;  I  am 
a  considerable  shareholder;  and,  as  head  of  the 
firm  of  Dwerrihouse,  Dwerrihouse,  and  Craik,  I  am 
the  company's  principal  solicitor." 

Loquacious,  self-important,  full  of  his  pet  pro- 
ject, and  apparently  unable  to  talk  on  any  other 
subject^JMr.  Dwerrihouse  then  went  on  to  tell  of 
the  opposition  he  had  encountered  and  the  obstacles 
he  had  overcome  in  the  cause  of  the  Stockbridge 
branch.  I  was  entertained  with  a  multitude  of  local 
details  and  local  grievances.     The  rapacity  of  one 


152  THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN   EXPRESS. 

squire;  the  impracticability  of  another;  the  indigna- 
tion of  the  rector  whose  glebe  was  threatened;  the 
culpable  indifference  of  the  Stockbridge  townspeople, 
who  could  not  be  brought  to  see  that  their  most 
vital  interests  hinged  upon  a  junction  with  the 
Great  East  Anglian  line;  the  spite  of  the  local 
newspaper;  and  the  unheard-of  difficulties  attending 
the  Common  question,  were  each  and  all  laid  be- 
fore me  with  a  circumstantiality  that  possessed  the 
deepest  interest  for  my  excellent  fellow-traveller, 
but  none  whatever  for  myself.  From  these,  to  my 
despair,  he  went  on  to  more  intricate  matters:  to 
the  approximate  expenses  of  construction  per  mile; 
to  the  estimates  sent  in  by  different  contractors;  to 
the  probable  traffic  returns  of  the  new  line:  to  the 
provisional  clauses  of  the  new  Act  as  enumerated 
in  Schedule  D  of  the  company's  last  half-yearly  re- 
port; and  so  on,  and  on,  and  on  till  my  head  ached,  and 
my  attention  flagged,  and  my  eyes  kept  closing  in 
spite  of  every  effort  that  I  made  to  keep  them  open. 
At  length  I  was  roused  by  these  words: — 

"Seventy-five  thousand  pounds,  cash  down." 

"Seventy-five  thousand  pounds,  cash  down,"  I 
repeated,  in  the  liveliest  tone  I  could  assume.  "That 
is  a  heavy  sum." 

"A  heavy  sum  to  carry  here,"  replied  Mr.  Dwerri- 
house,  pointing  significantly  to  his  breast-pocket; 
"but  a  mere  fraction  of  what  we  shall  ultimately 
have  to  pay." 

"You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you  have  seventy- 
five  thousand  pounds  at  this  moment  upon  your 
person?"  I  exclaimed. 


THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  I  53 

"My  good  Sir,  have  I  not  been  telling  you  so 
for  the  last  half  hour?"  said  Mr.  Dwerrihouse, 
testily.  "That  money  has  to  be  paid  over  at  half- 
past  eight  o'clock  this  evening,  at  the  office  of  Sir 
Thomas's  solicitors,  on  completion  of  the  deed  of 
sale." 

"But  how  will  you  get  across  by  night  from 
Blackwater  to  Stockbridge  with  seventy-five  thousand 
pounds  in  your  pocket?" 

"To  Stockbridge!"  echoed  the  lawyer.  "I  find  I 
have  made  myself  very  imperfectly  understood.  I 
thought  I  had  explained  how  this  sum  carries  our 
new  line  only  as  far  as  Mallingford — this  first  stage, 
as  it  were,  of  our  journey— and  how  our  route  from 
Blackwater  to  Mallingford  lies  entirely  through  Sir 
Thomas  Liddell's  property." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  stammered.  "I  fear 
my  thoughts  were  wandering.  So  you  only  go  as 
far  as  Mallingford  to-night?" 

"Precisely.  I  shall  get  a  conveyance  from  the 
'Blackwater  Arms.'     And  you?" 

"Oh,  Jelf  sends  a  trap  to  meet  me  at  Clay- 
borough.  Can  I  be  the  bearer  of  any  message  from 
you?" 

"  You  may  say  if  you  please,  Mr.  Langford,  that 
I  wished  I  could  have  been  your  companion  all  the 
way,  and  that  I  will  come  over  if  possible  before 
Christmas." 

"Nothing  more?" 

Mr.  Dwerrihouse  smiled  grimly. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  may  tell  my  cousin  that 
she   need   not  burn  the   hall   down   in  my  honour 


154  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

this  time,  and  that  I  shall  be  obliged  if  she  will 
order  the  blue-room  chimney  to  be  swept  before  I 
arrive." 

"That  sounds  tragic.  Had  you  a  conflagra- 
tion on  the  occasion  of  your  last  visit  to  Dumble- 
ton?" 

"Something  like  it.  There  had  been  no  fire 
lighted  in  my  bedroom  since  the  spring,  the  flue 
was  foul,  and  the  rooks  had  built  in  it;  so  when  I 
went  up  to  dress  for  dinner,  I  found  the  room  full 
of  smoke,  and  the  chimney  on  fire.  Are  we  already 
at  Blackwateii" 

The  train  had  gradually  come  to  a  pause  while 
Mr.  Dwerrihouse  was  speaking,  and  on  putting  my 
head  out  of  the  window,  I  could  see  the  station 
some  few  hundred  yards  ahead.  There  was  another 
train  before  us  blocking  the  way,  and  the  ticket- 
taker  was  making  use  of  the  delay  to  collect  the 
Blackwater  tickets.  I  had  scarcely  ascertained  our 
position,  when  the  ruddy-faced  official  appeared  at 
our  carriage  door. 

"Ticket,  Sir!"  said  he. 

"I  am  for  Clayborough ,"  I  replied,  holding  out 
the  tiny  pink  card. 

He  took  it;  glanced  at  it  by  the  light  of  his  little 
lantern;  gave  it  back;  looked,  as  I  fancied,  some- 
what sharply  at  my  fellow-traveller,  and  disap- 
peared. 

"He  did  not  ask  for  yours,"  I  said  with  some 
surprise. 

"They  never  do,"  replied  Mr.  Dwerrihouse. 
"They  all  know  me;  and  of  course,  I  travel  free." 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  I  55 

"Blackwater!  Blackwater!"  cried  the  porter,  run- 
ning along  the  platform  beside  us,  as  we  glided  into 
the  station. 

Mr.  Dwerrihouse  pulled  out  his  deed  box,  put 
his  travelling-cap  in  his  pocket,  resumed  his  hat, 
took  down  his  umbrella,  and  prepared  to  be  gone. 

"Many  thanks,  Mr.  Langford,  for  your  society," 
he  said,  with  old-fashioned  courtesy.  "I  wish  you  a 
good  evening." 

"Good  evening,"  I  replied,  putting  out  my 
hand. 

But  he  either  did  not  see  it,  or  did  not  choose 
to  see  it,  and,  slightly  lifting  his  hat,  stepped  out 
upon  the  platform.  Having  done  this,  he  moved 
slowly  away,  and  mingled  with  the  departing 
crowd. 

Leaning  forward  to  watch  him  out  of  sight,  I 
trod  upon  something  which  proved  to  be  a  cigar- 
case.  It  had  fallen,  no  doubt,  from  the  pocket  of 
his  water-proof  coat,  and  was  made  of  dark  morocco 
leather,  with  a  silver  monogram  upon  the  side.  I 
sprang  out  of  the  carriage  just  as  the  guard  came 
up  to  lock  me  in. 

"Is  there  one  minute  to  spare?"  I  asked  eagerly. 
"The  gentleman  who  travelled  down  with  me  from 
town  has  dropped  his  cigar-case — he  is  not  yet  out 
of  the  station!" 

"Just  a  minute  and  a  half,  Sir,"  replied  the 
guard.     "You  must  be  quick." 

I  dashed  along  the  platform  as  fast  as  my  feet 
could  carry  me.     It  was   a  large   station,   and  Mr. 


156  THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

Dwerrihouse  had  by  this  time  got  more  than  half- 
way to  the  farther  end. 

I,  however,  saw  him  distinctly,  moving  slowly 
with  the  stream.  Then,  as  I  drew  nearer,  I  saw  that 
he  had  met  some  friend — that  they  were  talking  as 
they  walked — that  they  presently  fell  back  some- 
what from  the  crowd,  and  stood  aside  in  earnest 
conversation.  I  made  straight  for  the  spot  where 
they  were  waiting.  There  was  a  vivid  gas-jet  just 
above  their  heads,  and  the  light  fell  full  upon  their 
faces.  I  saw  both  distinctly — the  face  of  Mr. 
Dwerrihouse  and  the  face  of  his  companion.  Run- 
ning, breathless,  eager  as  I  was,  getting  in  the  way 
of  porters  and  passengers,  and  fearful  every  instant 
lest  I  should  see  the  train  going  on  without  me,  I 
yet  observed  that  the  new-comer  was  considerably 
younger  and  shorter  than  the  director,  that  he  was 
sandy- haired,  mustachioed,  small-featured,  and 
dressed  in  a  close-cut  suit  of  Scotch  tweed.  I  was 
now  within  a  few  yards  of  them.  I  ran  against  a 
stout  gentleman — I  was  nearly  knocked  down  by  a 
luggage -truck — I  stumbled  over  a  carpet-bag  —  I 
gained  the  spot  just  as  the  driver's  whistle  warned 
me  to  return. 

To  my  utter  stupefaction  they  were  no  longer 
there.  I  had  seen  them  but  two  seconds  before — 
and  they  were  gone!  I  stood  still.  I  looked  to  right 
and  left.  I  saw  no  sign  of  them  in  any  direction. 
It  was  as  if  the  platform  had  gaped  and  swallowed 
them. 

"There   were    two  gentlemen    standing   here   a 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  157 

moment  ago,"  I  said  to  a  porter  at  my  elbow; 
"which  way  can  they  have  gone1?" 

"I  saw  no  gentlemen,  Sir,"  replied  the  man. 

The  whistle  shrilled  out  again.  The  guard,  far 
up  the  platform,  held  up  his  arm,  and  shouted  to 
me  to  "Come  on!" 

"If  you're  going  on  by  this  train,  Sir,"  said  the 
porter,  "you  must  run  for  it." 

I  did  run  for  it — just  gained  the  carriage  as  the 
train  began  to  move — was  shoved  in  by  the  guard, 
and  left  breathless  and  bewildered,  with  Mr.  Dwerri- 
house's  cigar-case  still  in  my  hand. 

It  was  the  strangest  disappearance  in  the  world. 
It  was  like  a  transformation  trick  in  a  pantomime. 
They  were  there  one  moment  —  palpably  there  — 
talking — with  the  gaslight  full  upon  their  faces;  and 
the  next  moment  they  were  gone.  There  was  no 
door  near — no  window — no  staircase.  It  was  a 
mere  slip  of  barren  platform,  tapestried  with  big 
advertisements.  Could  anything  be  more  mysteri- 
ous? 

It  was  not  worth  thinking  about;  and  yet,  for 
my  life,  I  could  not  help  pondering  upon  it— pon- 
dering, wondering,  conjecturing,  turning  it  over  and 
over  in  my  mind,  and  beating  my  brains  for  a  solu- 
tion of  the  enigma.  I  thought  of  it  all  the  way 
from  Blackwater  to  Clayborough.  I  thought  of  it 
all  the  way  from  Clayborough  to  Dumbleton,  as  I 
rattled  along  the  smooth  highway  in  a  trim  dog- 
cart drawn  by  a  splendid  black  mare,  and  driven 
by  the  silentest  and  dapperest  of  East  Anglian 
grooms. 


158  THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN   EXPRESS. 

We  did  the  nine  miles  in  something  less  than 
an  hour,  and  pulled  up  before  the  lodge-gates  just 
as  the  church  clock  was  striking  half-past  seven.  A 
couple  of  minutes  more,  and  the  warm  glow  of  the 
lighted  hall  was  flooding  out  upon  the  gravel;  a 
hearty  grasp  was  on  my  hand;  and  a  clear  jovial 
voice  was  bidding  me  "Welcome  to  Dumbleton." 

"And  now,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  my  host,  when 
the  first  greeting  was  over,  "you  have  no  time  to  spare. 
We  dine  at  eight,  and  there  are  people  coming  to 
meet  you;  so  you  must  just  get  the  dressing  busi- 
ness over  as  quickly  as  may  be.  By  the  way,  you 
will  meet  some  acquaintances.  The  Biddulphs  are 
coming,  and  Prendergast  (Prendergast,  of  the  Skir- 
mishers) is  staying  in  the  house.  Adieu!  Mrs.  Jelf 
will  be  expecting  you  in  the  drawing-room." 

I  was  ushered  to  my  room — not  the  blue  room, 
of  which  Mr.  Dwerrihouse  had  made  disagreeable 
experience,  but  a  pretty  little  bachelor's  chamber, 
hung  with  a  delicate  chintz,  and  made  cheerful  by 
a  blazing  fire.  I  unlocked  my  portmanteau.  I  tried 
to  be  expeditious;  but  the  memory  of  my  railway 
adventure  haunted  me.  I  could  not  get  free  of  it. 
I  could  not  shake  it  off.  It  impeded  me — it  worried 
me — it  tripped  me  up — it  caused  me  to  mislay  my 
studs — to  mistie  my  cravat — to  wrench  the  buttons 
off  my  gloves.  Worst  of  all,  it  made  me  so  late 
that  the  party  had  all  assembled  before  I  reached 
the  drawing-room.  I  had  scarcely  paid  my  respects 
to  Mrs.  Jelf  when  dinner  was  announced,  and  we 
paired  off,  some  eight  or  ten  couples  strong,  into 
the  dining-room. 


THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN   EXPRESS.  1 59 

I  am  not  going  to  describe  either  the  guests  or 
the  dinner.  All  provincial  parties  bear  the  strictest 
family  resemblance,  and  I  am  not  aware  that  an 
East  Anglian  banquet  offers  any  exception  to  the 
rule.  There  was  the  usual  country  baronet  and  his 
wife;  there  were  the  usual  country  parsons  and  their 
wives;  there  was  the  sempiternal  turkey  and  haunch 
of  venison.  Vanitas  vanitatum.-  There  is  nothing 
new  under  the  sun. 

I  was  placed  about  midway  down  the  table.  I 
had  taken  one  rector's  wife  down  to  dinner,  and  I 
had  another  at  my  left  hand.  They  talked  across 
me,  and  their  talk  was  about  babies.  It  was  dread- 
fully dull.  At  length  there  came  a  pause.  The 
entrees  had  just  been  removed,  and  the  turkey  had 
come  upon  the  scene.  The  conversation  had  all 
along  been  of  the  languidest,  but  at  this  moment  it 
happened  to  have  stagnated  altogether.  Jelf  was 
carving  the  turkey.  Mrs.  Jelf  looked  as  if  she  was 
trying  to  think  of  something  to  say.  Everybody  else 
was  silent.  Moved  by  an  unlucky  impulse,  I  thought 
I  would  relate  my  adventure. 

"By  the  way,  Jelf,"  I  began,  "I  came  down  part 
of  the  way  to-day  with  a  friend  of  yours." 

"Indeed!"  said  the  master  of  the  feast,  slicing 
scientifically  into  the  breast  of  the  turkey.  "With 
whom,  pray1?" 

"With  one  who  bade  me  tell  you  that  he 
should,  if  possible,  pay  you  a  visit  before  Christ- 
mas." 

"I  cannot  think  who  that  could  be,"  said  my 
friend,  smiling. 


l60  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

"It  must  be  Major  Thorp,"  suggested  Mrs.  Jelf. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"It  was  not  Major  Thorp,"  I  replied.  "It  was  a 
near  relation  of  your  own,  Mrs.  Jelf." 

"Then  I  am  more  puzzled  than  ever,"  replied 
my  hostess.     "Pray  tell  me  who  it  was." 

"It  was  no  less  a  person  than  your  cousin,  Mr. 
John  Dwerrihouse." 

Jonathan  Jelf  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork. 
Mrs.  Jelf  looked  at  me  in  a  strange,  startled  way, 
and  said  never  a  word. 

"And  he  desired  me  to  tell  you,  my  dear  ma- 
dam, that  you  need  not  take  the  trouble  to  burn 
the  Hall  down  in  his  honour  this  time;  but  only  to 
have  the  chimney  of  the  blue  room  swept  before 
his  arrival." 

Before  I  had  reached  the  end  of  my  sentence,  I 
became  aware  of  something  ominous  in  the  faces  of 
the  guests.  I  felt  I  had  said  something  which  I  had 
better  have  left  unsaid,  and  that  for  some  unex- 
plained reason  my  words  had  evoked  a  general  con- 
sternation. I  sat  confounded,  not  daring  to  utter 
another  syllable,  and  for  at  least  two  whole  minutes 
there  was  dead  silence  round  the  table. 

Then  Captain  Prendergast  came  to  the  rescue. 

"You  have  been  abroad  for  some  months,  have 
you  not,  Mr.  Langford?"  he  said,  with  the  despera- 
tion of  one  who  flings  himself  into  the  breach.  "I 
heard  you  had  been  to  Russia.  Surely  you  have 
something  to  tell  us  of  the  state  and  temper  of  the 
country  after  the  war1?" 

I  was  heartily  grateful  to  the  gallant  Skirmisher 


THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  l6l 

for  this  diversion  in  my  favour.  I  answered  him,  I 
fear,  somewhat  lamely;  but  he  kept  the  conversa- 
tion up,  and  presently  one  or  two  others  joined  in, 
and  so  the  difficulty,  whatever  it  might  have  been, 
was  bridged  over.  Bridged  over,  but  not  repaired. 
A  something,  an  awkwardness,  a  visible  constraint 
remained.  The  guests  hitherto  had  been  simply 
dull;  but  now  they  were  evidently  uncomfortable 
and  embarrassed. 

The  dessert  had  scarcely  been  placed  upon  the 
table  when  the  ladies  left  the  room.  I  seized  the 
opportunity  to  drop  into  a  vacant  chair  next  Captain 
Prendergast. 

"In  Heaven's  name,"  I  whispered,  "what  was  the 
matter  just  now?     What  had  I  said?" 

"You  mentioned  the  name  of  John  Dwerri- 
house." 

"What  of  that?  I  had  seen  him  not  two  hours 
before." 

"It  is  a  most  astounding  circumstance  that  you 
should  have  seen  him,"  said  Captain  Prendergast. 
"Are  you  sure  it  was  he?" 

"As  sure  as  of  my  own  identity.  We  were  talk- 
ing all  the  way  between  London  and  Blackwater. 
But  why  does  that  surprise  you?" 

"Because,"  replied  Captain  Prendergast,  dropping 
his  voice  to  the  lowest  whisper — "because  John 
Dwerrihouse  absconded  three  months  ago,  with  seventy- 
five  thousand  pounds  of  the  Company's  money,  and  has 
never  been  heard  of  since." 


The  Black  Forest.  l  * 


1 02  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 


CHAPTER   II. 

John  Dwerrihouse  had  absconded  three  months 
ago — and  I  had  seen  him  only  a  few  hours  back. 
John  Dwerrihouse  had  embezzled  seventy-five  thou- 
sand pounds  of  the  Company's  money — yet  told  me 
that  he  carried  that  sum  upon  his  person.  Were 
ever  facts  so  strangely  incongruous,  so  difficult  to 
reconcile?  How  should  he  have  ventured  again 
into  the  light  of  day?  How  dared  he  show  him- 
self along  the  line?  Above  all,  what  had  he  been 
doing  throughout  those  mysterious  three  months  of 
disappearance? 

Perplexing  questions  these.  Questions  which  at 
once  suggested  themselves  to  the  minds  of  all  con- 
cerned, but  which  admitted  of  no  easy  solution.  I 
could  find  no  reply  to  them.  Captain  Prendergast 
had  not  even  a  suggestion  to  offer.  Jonathan  Jelf, 
who  seized  the  first  opportunity  of  drawing  me 
aside  and  learning  all  that  I  had  to  tell,  was  more 
amazed  and  bewildered  than  either  of  us.  He  came 
to  my  room  that  night  when  all  the  guests  were 
gone,  and  we  talked  the  thing  over  from  every 
point  of  view — without,  it  must  be  confessed,  arriv- 
ing at  any  kind  of  conclusion. 

"I  do  not  ask  you,"  he  said,  "whether  you  can 
have  mistaken  your  man.     That  is  impossible." 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  1 63 

"As  impossible  as  that  I  should  mistake  some 
stranger  for  yourself." 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  looks  or  voice,  but  of 
facts.  That  he  should  have  alluded  to  the  fire  in 
the  blue  room  is  proof  enough  of  John  Dwerrihouse's 
identity.     How  did  he  look?" 

"Older,  I  thought.  Considerably  older,  paler, 
and  more  anxious." 

"He  has  had  enough  to  make  him  look  anxious, 
anyhow,'  said  my  friend,  gloomily;  "be  he  innocent 
or  guilty." 

"I  am  inclined  to  believe  he  is  innocent,"  I  re- 
plied. "He  showed  no  embarrassment  when  I  ad- 
dressed him,  and  no  uneasiness  when  the  guard 
came  round.  His  conversation  was  open  to  a  fault. 
I  might  almost  say  that  he  talked  too  freely  of  the 
business  which  he  had  in  hand." 

"That  again  is  strange;  for  I  know  no  one  more 
reticent  on  such  subjects.  He  actually  told  you  that 
he  had  the  seventy-five  thousand  pounds  in  his 
pocket?" 

"He  did." 

"Humph!  My  wife  has  an  idea  about  it,  and  she 
may  be  right — " 

"What  idea?" 

"Well,  she  fancies — women  are  so  clever,  you 
know,  at  putting  themselves  inside  people's  motives 
— she  fancies  that  he  was  tempted;  that  he  did 
actually  take  the  money;  and  that  he  has  been  con- 
cealing himself  these  three  months  in  some  wild 
part  of  the  country — struggling  possibly  with  his 
conscience  all  the  time,  and   daring  neither  to  ab- 

11* 


164  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

scond  with  his  booty,   nor  to  come  back  and  re- 
store it." 

"But  now  that  he  has  come  back?" 

"That  is  the  point.  She  conceives  that  he  has 
probably  thrown  himself  upon  the  Company's  mercy; 
made  restitution  of  the  money;  and,  being  forgiven, 
is  permitted  to  carry  the  business  through  as  if  no- 
thing whatever  had  happened." 

"The  last,"  I  replied,  "is  an  impossible  case. 
Mrs.  Jelf  thinks  like  a  generous  and  delicate-minded 
woman;  but  not  in  the  least  like  a  board  of  railway 
directors.  They  would  never  carry  forgiveness  so 
far." 

"I  fear  not;  and  yet  it  is  the  only  conjecture 
that  bears  a  semblance  of  likelihood.  However,  we 
can  run  over  to  Clayborough  to-morrow,  and  see  if 
anything  is  to  be  learned.  By  the  way,  Prendergast 
tells  me  you  picked  up  his  cigar-case." 

"I  did — and  here  it  is." 

Jelf  took  the  cigar-case,  examined  it,  and  said 
at  once  that  it  was  beyond  doubt  Mr.  Dwerrihouse's 
property,  and  that  he  remembered  to  have  seen  him 
use  it. 

"Here,  too,  is  his  monogram  on  the  side,"  he 
added.  "A  big  J  transfixing  a  capital  D.  He  used 
to  carry  the  same  on  his  note  paper." 

"It  proves,  at  all  events,  that  I  was  not  dream- 
ing." 

"Ay;  but  it  is  time  you  were  asleep  and  dream- 
ing now.  I  am  ashamed  to  have  kept  you  so  long. 
Good  night." 

"Good  night,   and   remember  that  I  am  more 


THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  1 65 

than  ready  to  go  with  you  to  Clayborough,  or  Black- 
water,  or  London,  or  anywhere,  if  I  can  be  of  the 
least  service." 

"Thanks!  I  know  you  mean  it,  old  friend,  and 
it  may  be  that  I  shall  put  you  to  the  test.  Once 
more,  good  night." 

So  we  parted  for  that  night,  and  met  again  in 
the  breakfast-room  at  half-past  eight  next  morning. 
It  was  a  hurried,  silent,  uncomfortable  meal.  None 
of  us  had  slept  well,  and  all  were  thinking  of  the 
same  subject.  Mrs.  Jelf  had  evidently  been  crying; 
Jelf  was  impatient  to  be  off;  and  both  Captain 
Prendergast  and  myself  felt  ourselves  to  be  in  the 
painful  position  of  outsiders,  who  are  involuntarily 
brought  into  a  domestic  trouble.  Within  twenty 
minutes  after  we  had  left  the  breakfast-table,  the 
dog-cart  was  brought  round,  and  my  friend  and  I 
were  on  the  road  to  Clayborough. 

"Tell  you  what  it  is,  Langford,"  he  said,  as  we 
sped  along  between  the  wintry  hedges,  "I  do  not 
much  fancy  bringing  up  Dwerrihouse's  name  at 
Clayborough.  All  the  officials  know  that  he  is  my 
wife's  relation,  and  the  subject  just  now  is  hardly  a 
pleasant  one.  If  you  don't  much  mind,  we  will 
take  the  ii.io  train  to  Blackwater.  It's  an  impor- 
tant station,  and  we  shall  stand  a  far  better  chance 
of  picking  up  information  there  than  at  Clay- 
borough." 

So  we  took  the  ii.io,  which  happened  to  be  an 
express,  and,  arriving  at  Blackwater  about  a  quarter 
before  twelve,  proceeded  at  once  to  prosecute  our 
inquiry. 


l66  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

We  began  by  asking  for  the  station-master — a 
big,  blunt,  business-like  person,  who  at  once  averred 
that  he  knew  Mr.  John  Dwerrihouse  perfectly  well, 
and  that  there  was  no  director  on  the  line  whom 
he  had  seen  and  spoken  to  so  frequently. 

"He  used  to  be  down  here  two  or  three  times 
a-week,  about  three  months  ago,"  said  he,  "when  the 
new  line  was  first  set  afoot;  but  since  then,  you 
know,  gentlemen — - — " 

He  paused,  significantly. 

Jelf  flushed  scarlet. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "we  know  all 
about  that.  The  point  now  to  be  ascertained  is 
whether  anything  has  been  seen  or  heard  of  him 
lately." 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,"  replied  the  station- 
master. 

"He  is  not  known  to  have  been  down  the  line 
any  time  yesterday,  for  instance?" 

The  station-master  shook  his  head. 

"The  East  Anglian,  sir,"  said  he,  "is  about  the 
last  place  where  he  would  dare  to  show  himself. 
Why,  there  isn't  a  station-master,  there  isn't  a  guard, 
there  isn't  a  porter,  who  doesn't  know  Mr.  Dwerri- 
house by  sight  as  well  as  he  knows  his  own  face 
in  the  looking-glass;  or  who  wouldn't  telegraph  for 
the  police  as  soon  as  he  had  set  eyes  on  him  at 
any  point  along  the  line.  Bless  you,  sir!  there's 
been  a  standing  order  out  against  him  ever  since 
the  twenty-fifth  of  September  last." 

"And  yet,"  pursued  my  friend,  "a  gentleman 
who    travelled    down    yesterday    from    London    to 


THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  1 67 

Clayborough  by  the  afternoon  express,  testifies  that 
he  saw  Mr.  Dwei.ihouse  in  the  train,  and  that  Mr. 
Dwerrihouse  alighted  at  Blackwater  station." 

"Quite  imposs  ble,  sir,"  replied  the  station- 
master,  promptly. 

"  Why  impossible  V 

"Because  there  ;>,  no  station  along  the  line 
where  he  is  so  well  jkiown,  or  where  he  would  run 
so  great  a  risk.  It  Would  be  just  running  his  head 
into  the  lion's  mouth.  He  would  have  been  mad 
to  come  nigh  Blackwafer  station;  and  if  he  had 
come,  he  would  have  =yeen  arrested  before  he  left 
the  platform." 

"Can  you  tell  me  .  .vho  took  the  Blackwater 
tickets  of  that  train]"    , 

"I  can,  sir.  It  was  the  guard — Benjamin 
Somers."  Lj 

"And  where  can  ':  find  him1?" 

"You  can  find  him,  sir,  by  staying  here,  if  you 
please,  till  one  o'clock.  He  will  be  coming  through 
with  the  up  Express  from  Crampton,  which  stays  at 
Blackwater  for  ten  minutes." 

We  waited  for  the  up  Express,  beguiling  the 
time  as  best  we  could  by  strolling  along  the  Black- 
water  road  till  we  came  almost  to  the  outskirts  of 
the  town,  from  which  the  station  was  distant  nearly 
a  couple  of  miles.  By  one  o'clock  we  were  back 
again  upon  the  platform,  and  waiting  for  the  train. 
It  came  punctually,  and  I  at  once  recognized  the 
ruddy-faced  guard  who  had  gone  down  with  my 
train  the  evening  before. 

"The    gentlemen    want   to    ask  you    something 


1 68  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

about  Mr.  Dwerrihouse,  Somers/i  said  the  station- 
master,  by  way  of  introduction. 

The  guard  flashed  a  keen  gl?iice  from  my  face 
to  Jelf's,  and  back  again  to  min*. 

"Mr.  John  Dwerrihouse,  the'  ate  director?"  said 
he,  interrogatively. 

"The  same,"  replied  my  friend.  "Should  you 
know  him  if  you  saw  him?"     fi 

"Anywhere,  sir." 

"Do  you  know  if  he  was  in  the  4.15  Express 
yesterday  afternoon?" 

"He  was  not,  sir."  \ 

"How  can  you  answer-  so  positively1?" 

"Because  I  looked  intiv  every  carriage,  and  saw 
every  face  in  that  train,  and  I  could  take  my  oath 
that  Mr.  Dwerrihouse  was  not  in  it.  This  gentle- 
man was,"  he  added,  turning  sharply  upon  me.  "I 
don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  him  before  in  my  life, 
but  I  remember  his  face  perfectly.  You  nearly 
missed  taking  your  seat  in  time  at  this  station,  sir, 
and  you  got  out  at  Clayborough." 

"Quite  true,"  I  replied;  "but  do  you  not  also 
remember  the  face  of  the  gentleman  who  travelled 
down  in  the  same  carriage  with  me  as  far  as 
here?" 

"It  was  my  impression,  sir,  that  you  travelled 
down  alone,"  said  Somers,  with  a  look  of  some 
surprise. 

"By  no  means.  I  had  a  fellow-traveller  as  far 
as  Blackwater,  and  it  was  in  trying  to  restore  him 
the  cigar-case  which  he  had  dropped  in  the  carriage, 
that  I  so  nearly  let  you  go  on  without  me." 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  1 69 

"I  remember  your  saying  something  about  a 
cigar-case,  certainly,"  replied  the  guard,  "but " 

"You  asked  for  my  ticket  just  before  we  en- 
tered the  station." 

"I  did,  sir." 

"Then  you  must  have  seen  him.  He  sat  in  the 
corner  next  tne  very  door  to  which  you  came." 

"No,  indeed.     I  saw  no  one." 

I  looked  at  Jelf.  I  began  to  think  the  guard 
was  in  the  ex-director's  confidence,  and  paid  for  his 

silence. 

"If  I  had  seen  another  traveller  I  should  have 
asked  for  his  ticket,"  added  Somers.  "Did  you  see 
me  ask  for  his  ticket,  sir1?" 

"I  observed  that  you  did  not  ask  for  it,  but  he 
explained  that  by  saying— — " 

I  hesitated.  I  feared  I  might  be  telling  too 
much,  -nd  so  broke  off  abruptly. 

The  guard  and  the  station-master  exchanged 
glances.  The  former  looked  impatiently  at  his 
watch. 

"I  am  obliged  to  go  in  four  minutes  more,  sir," 

he  said. 

"One  last  question,  then,"  interposed  Jelf,  with 
a  sort  of  desperation.  "If  this  gentleman's  fellow- 
traveller  had  been  Mr.  John  Dwerrihouse,  and  he 
had  been  sitting  in  the  corner  next  the  door  by 
which  you  took  the  tickets,  could  you  have  failed 
to  see  and  recognize  him1?" 

"No,  sir;   it  would  have  been  quite  impossible." 
"And  you  are  certain  you  did  not  see  him?" 
"As  I  said  before,  sir,  I  could  take  my  oath  I 


I70  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

did  not  see  him.  And  if  it  wasn't  that  I  don't  like 
to  contradict  a  gentleman,  I  would  say  I  could  also 
take  my  oath  that  this  gentleman  was  quite  alone 
in  the  carriage  the  whole  way  from  London  to  Clay- 
borough.  Why,  sir,"  he  added,  dropping  his  voice 
so  as  to  be  inaudible  to  the  station-master,  who 
had  been  called  away  to  speak  to  some  person 
close  by,  "you  expressly  asked  me  to  give  you  a 
compartment  to  yourself,  and  I  did  so.  I  locked 
you  in,  and  you  were  so  good  as  to  give  me  some- 
thing for  myself." 

"Yes;  but  Mr.  Dwerrihouse  had  a  key  of  his 
own." 

"I  never  saw  him,  sir;  I  saw  no  one  in  the 
compartment  but  yourself.  Beg  pardon,  sir,  my 
time's  up." 

And  with  this  the  ruddy  guard  touched  his  cap 
and  was  gone.  In  another  minute  the  heavy  panting 
of  the  engine  began  afresh,  and  the  train  glided 
slowly  out  of  the  station. 

We  looked  at  each  other  for  some  moments  in 
silence.     I  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Mr.  Benjamin  Somers  knows  more  than  he 
chooses  to  tell,"  I  said. 

"Humph!  do  you  think  sol" 

"It  must  be.  He  could  not  have  come  to  the 
door  without  seeing  him.     It's  impossible." 

"There  is  one  thing  not  impossible,  my  dear 
fellow." 

"What  is  that?" 

"That  you  may  have  fallen  asleep,  and  dreamt 
the  whole  thing." 


THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  171 

"Could  I  dream  of  a  branch  line  that  I  had 
never  heard  of]  Could  I  dream  of  a  hundred  and 
one  business  details  that  had  no  kind  of  interest 
for  me?  Could  I  dream  of  the  seventy-five  thousand 
pounds V 

"Perhaps  you  might  have  seen,  or  heard,  some 
vague  account  of  the  affair  while  you  were  abroad. 
It  might  have  made  no  impression  upon  you  at  the 
time,  and  might  have  come  back  to  you  in  your 
dreams— recalled,  perhaps,  by  the  mere  names  of 
the  stations  on  the  line." 

"What  about  the  fire  in  the  chimney  of  the 
blue  room— should  I  have  heard  of  that  during  my 

journey1?" 

"Well,  no;   I  admit  there  is  a  difficulty  about 

that  point." 

"And  what  about  the  cigar-case?" 

"Ay,  by  Jove!  there  is  the  cigar-case.  That 
is  a  stubborn  fact.  Well,  it's  a  mysterious  affair, 
and  it  will  need  a  better  detective  than  myself,  I 
fancy,  to  clear  it  up.  I  suppose  we  may  as  well 
go  home." 


172  THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN   EXPRESS. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  week  had  not  gone  by  when  I  received  a 
letter  from  the  Secretary  of  the  East  Anglian  Rail- 
way Company,  requesting  the  favour  of  my  at- 
tendance at  a  special  board  meeting,  not  then  many 
days  distant.  No  reasons  were  alleged,  and  no 
apologies  offered,  for  this  demand  upon  my  time; 
but  they  had  heard,  it  was  clear,  of  my  inquiries 
about  the  missing  director,  and  had  a  mind  to  put 
me  through  some  sort  of  official  examination  upon 
the  subject.  Being  still  a  guest  at  Dumbleton  Hall, 
I  had  to  go  up  to  London  for  the  purpose,  and 
Jonathan  Jelf  accompanied  me.  I  found  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Great  East  Anglian  line  represented  by 
a  party  of  some  twelve  or  fourteen  gentlemen 
seated  in  solemn  conclave  round  a  huge  green-baize 
table  in  a  gloomy  Board-room  adjoining  the  London 
terminus. 

Being  courteously  received  by  the  chairman  (who 
at  once  began  by  saying  that  certain  statements  of 
mine  respecting  Mr.  John  Dwerrihouse  had  come  to 
the  knowledge  of  the  direction,  and  that  they  in 
consequence  desired  to  confer  with  me  on  those 
points),  we  were  placed  at  the  table,  and  the  inquiry 
proceeded  in  due  form. 

I  was  first  asked   if  I   knew  Mr.  John  Dwerri- 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  I  73 

house,  how  long  I  had  been  acquainted  with  him, 
and  whether  I  could  identify  him  at  sight.  I  was 
then  asked  when  I  had  seen  him  last.  To  which  I 
replied,  "On  the  fourth  of  this  present  month, 
December,  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-six." 

Then  came  the  inquiry  of  where  I  had  seen 
him  on  that  fourth  day  of  December;  to  which  I 
replied  that  I  met  him  in  a  first-class  compartment 
of  the  4.15  down-Express;  that  he  got  in  just  as  the 
train  was  leaving  the  London  terminus,  and  that  he 
alighted  at  Blackwater  station.  The  chairman  then 
inquired  whether  I  had  held  any  communication 
with  my  fellow-traveller;  whereupon  I  related,  as 
I  could  remember  it,  the  whole  bulk  and  substance 
of  Mr.  John  Dwerrihouse's  diffuse  information  re- 
specting the  new  branch  line. 

To  all  this  the  board  listened  with  profound 
attention,  while  the  chairman  presided  and  the  secre- 
tary took  notes.  I  then  produced  the  cigar-case. 
It  was  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and  recognised 
by  all.  There  was  not  a  man  present  who  did  not 
remember  that  plain  cigar-case  with  its  silver  mono- 
gram, or  to  whom  it  seemed  anything  less  than  en- 
tirely corroborative  of  my  evidence. 

When,  at  length,  I  had  told  all  that  I  had  to 
tell,  the  chairman  whispered  something  to  the  secre- 
tary; the  secretary  touched  a  silver  hand-bell;  and 
the  guard,  Benjamin  Somers,  was  ushered  into  the 
room.  He  was  then  examined  as  carefully  as  my- 
self. He  declared  that  he  knew  Mr.  John  Dwerri- 
house  perfectly  well;  that  he  could  not  be  mistaken 
in  him;  that  he  remembered  going  down  with  the 


174  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

4.15  Express  on  the  afternoon  in  question;  that  he 
remembered  me;  and  that,  there  being  one  or  two 
empty  first-class  compartments  on  that  especial  after- 
noon, he  had,  in  compliance  with  my  request,  placed 
me  in  a  carriage  by  myself.  He  was  positive  that 
I  remained  alone  all  the  way  in  that  compartment 
from  London  to  Clayborough.  He  was  ready  to  take 
his  oath  that  Mr.  Dwerrihouse  was  neither  in  that 
carriage  with  me,  nor  in  any  compartment  of  that 
train.  He  remembered  distinctly  to  have  examined 
my  ticket  at  Blackwater;  was  certain  that  there  was 
no  one  else  at  that  time  in  the  carriage;  could  not 
have  failed  to  observe  a  second  person,  if  there  had 
been  one;  had  that  second  person  been  Mr.  John 
Dwerrihouse,  should  have  quietly  double-locked  the 
door  of  carriage,  and  have  given  information  to  the 
Blackwater  station-master.  So  clear,  so  decisive,  so 
ready,  was  Somers  with  this  testimony,  that  the 
board  looked  fairly  puzzled. 

"You  hear  this  person's  statement,  Mr.  Lang- 
ford,"  said  the  chairman.  "It  contradicts  yours  in 
every  particular.     What  have  you  to  say  in  reply?" 

"I  can  only  repeat  what  I  said  before.  I  am 
quite  as  positive  of  the  truth  of  my  own  assertions 
as  Mr.  Somers  can  be  of  the  truth  of  his." 

"You  say  that  Mr.  Dwerrihouse  alighted  at  Black- 
water,  and  that  he  was  in  possession  of  a  private 
key.  Are  you  sure  that  he  had  not  alighted  by 
means  of  that  key  before  the  guard  came  round  for 
the  tickets?" 

"I  am  quite  positive  that  he  did  not  leave  the 
carriage  till  the  train  had  fairly  entered  the  station 


THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  I  75 

and  the  other  Blackwater  passengers  alighted.  I 
even  saw  that  he  was  met  there  by  a  friend." 

"Indeed!    Did  you  see  that  person  distinctly?" 

"Quite  distinctly." 

"Can  you  describe  his  appearance?" 

"I  think  so.  He  was  short  and  very  slight, 
sandy-haired,  with  a  bushy  moustache  and  beard, 
and  he  wore  a  closely-fitting  suit  of  grey  tweed. 
His  age  I  should  take  to  be  about  thirty-eight  or 
forty." 

"Did  Mr.  Dwerrihouse  leave  the  station  in  this 
person's  company?" 

"I  cannot  tell.  I  saw  them  walking  together 
down  the  platform,  and  then  I  saw  them  standing 
aside  under  a  gas-jet,  talking  earnestly.  After  that 
I  lost  sight  of  them  quite  suddenly;  and  just  then 
my  train  went  on,  and  I  with  it." 

The  chairman  and  secretary  conferred  together 
in  an  undertone.  The  directors  whispered  to  each 
other.  One  or  two  looked  suspiciously  at  the  guard. 
I  could  see  that  my  evidence  remained  unshaken, 
and  that,  like  myself,  they  suspected  some  com- 
plicity between  the  guard  and  the  defaulter. 

"How  far  did  you  conduct  that  4.15  express 
on  the  day  in  question,  Somers?"  asked  the  chair- 
man. 

"All  through,  sir,"  replied  the  guard;  "from 
London  to  Crampton." 

"How  was  it  that  you  were  not  relieved  at  Clay- 
borough?  I  thought  there  was  always  a  change  of 
guards  at  Clayborough." 

"There  used  to  be,  sir,  till  the  new  regulations 


176  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

came  in  force  last  Midsummer;  since  when,  the 
guards  in  charge  of  Express  trains  go  the  whole 
way  through." 

The  chairman  turned  to  the  secretary. 
"I  think  it  would  be  as  well,"   he  said,   "if  we 
had  the  day-book  to  refer  to  upon  this  point." 

Again  the  secretary  touched  the  silver  hand-bell, 
and  desired  the  porter  in  attendance  to  summon 
Mr.  Raikes.  From  a  word  or  two  dropped  by  an- 
other of  the  directors,  I  gathered  that  Mr.  Raikes 
was  one  of  the  under-secretaries. 

He  came — a  small,  slight,  sandy-haired,  keen- 
eyed  man,  with  an  eager,  nervous  manner,  and  a 
forest  of  light  beard  and  moustache.  He  just  showed 
himself  at  the  door  of  the  board-room,  and  being 
requested  to  bring  a  certain  day-book  from  a  certain 
shelf  in  a  certain  room,  bowed  and  vanished. 

He  was  there  such  a  moment,  and  the  surprise 
of  seeing  him  was  so  great  and  sudden,  that  it  was 
not  till  the  door  had  closed  upon  him  that  I  found 
voice  to  speak.  He  was  no  sooner  gone,  however, 
than  I  sprang  to  my  feet. 

"That  person,"  I  said,  "is  the  same  who  met 
Mr.  Dwerrihouse  upon  the  platform  at  Blackwater!" 

There  was  a  general  movement  of  surprise.  The 
chairman  looked  grave,  and  somewhat  agitated. 

"Take  care,  Mr.  Langford,"  he  said,  "take  care 
what  you  say!" 

"I  am  as  positive  of  his  identity  as  of  my  own." 

"Do  you  consider  the  consequences  of  your 
words?     Do  you  consider  that  you  are  bringing  a 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  I  77 

charge  of  the  gravest  character  against  one  of  the 
company's  servants?" 

"I  am  willing  to  be  put  upon  my  oath,  if  neces- 
sary. The  man  who  came  to  that  door  a  minute 
since  is  the  same  whom  I  saw  talking  with  Mr. 
Dwerrihouse  on  the  Blackwater  platform.  Were  he 
twenty  times  the  company's  servant,  I  could  say 
neither  more  nor  less." 

The  chairman  turned  again  to  the  guard. 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Raikes  in  the  train,  or  on  the 
platform1?"  he  asked. 

Somers  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  confident  Mr.  Raikes  was  not  in  the 
train,"  he  said;  "and  I  certainly  did  not  see  him  on 
the  platform." 

The  chairman  turned  next  to  the  secretary. 

"Mr.  Raikes  is  in  your  office,  Mr.  Hunter,"  he 
said.  "Can  you  remember  if  he  was  absent  on  the 
fourth  instant1?" 

"I  do  not  think  he  was,"  replied  the  secretary; 
"but  I  am  not  prepared  to  speak  positively.  I  have 
been  away  most  afternoons  myself  lately,  and  Mr. 
Raikes  might  easily  have  absented  himself  if  he  had 
been  disposed." 

At  this  moment  the  under- secretary  returned 
with  the  day-book  under  his  arm. 

"Be  pleased  to  refer,  Mr.  Raikes,"  said  the  chair- 
man, "to  the  entries  of  the  fourth  instant,  and  see 
what  Benjamin  Somers'  duties  were  on  that  day." 

Mr.  Raikes  threw  open  the  cumbrous  volume, 
and  ran  a  practised  eye  and  finger  down  some  three 
or  four  successive   columns  of   entries.      Stopping 

The  Black  Forest.  ■    1 2 


178  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

suddenly  at  the  foot  of  a  page,  he  then  read  aloud 
that  Benjamin  Somers  had  on  that  day  conducted 
the  4.15  express  from  London  to  Crampton. 

The  chairman  leaned  forward  in  his  seat,  looked 
the  under-secretary  full  in  the  face,  and  said,  quite 
sharply  and  suddenly:  — 

"Where  were  you,  Mr.  Raikes,  on  the  same 
afternoon1?" 

"I,  sir?" 

"You,  Mr.  Raikes.  Where  were  you  on  the 
afternoon  and  evening  of  the  fourth  of  the  present 
month?" 

"Here,  sir — in  Mr.  Hunter's  oifice.  Where  else 
should  I  be?" 

There  was  a  dash  of  trepidation  in  the  under- 
secretary's voice  as  he  said  this;  but  his  look  of 
surprise  was  natural  enough. 

"We  have  some  reason  for  believing,  Mr.  Raikes, 
that  you  were  absent  that  afternoon  without  leave. 
Was  this  the  case?" 

"Certainly  not,  sir.  I  have  not  had  a  day's 
holiday  since  September.  Mr.  Hunter  will  bear  me 
out  in  this." 

Mr.  Hunter  repeated  what  he  had  previously  said 
on  the  subject,  but  added  that  the  clerks  in  the  ad- 
joining office  would  be  certain  to  know.  Where- 
upon the  senior  clerk,  a  grave,  middle-aged  person, 
in  green  glasses,  was  summoned  and  interrogated. 

His  testimony  cleared  the  under-secretary  at  once. 
He  declared  that  Mr.  Raikes  had  in  no  instance,  to 
his  knowledge,    been    absent    during    office   hours 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  I  79 

since  his  return  from  his  annual  holiday  in  Sep- 
tember. 

I  was  confounded. 

The  chairman  turned  to  me  with  a  smile,  in 
which  a  shade  of  covert  annoyance  was  scarcely 
apparent. 

"You  hear,  Mr.  Langford?"  he  said. 

"I  hear,  sir;  but  my  conviction  remains  un- 
shaken." 

"I  fear,  Mr.  Langford,  that  your  convictions  are 
very  insufficiently  based,"  replied  the  chairman,  with 
a  doubtful  cough.  "I  fear  that  you  'dream  dreams,' 
and  mistake  them  for  actual  occurrences.  It  is  a 
dangerous  habit  of  mind,  and  might  lead  to  dan- 
gerous results.  Mr.  Raikes  here  would  have  found 
himself  in  an  unpleasant  position,  had  he  not  proved 
so  satisfactory  an  alibi." 

I  was  about  to  reply,  but  he  gave  me  no  time. 

"I  think,  gentlemen,"  he  went  on  to  say,  ad- 
dressing the  board,  "that  we  should  be  wasting  time 
to  push  this  inquiry  farther.  Mr.  Langford's  evidence 
would  seem  to  be  of  an  equal  value  throughout. 
The  testimony  of  Benjamin  Somers  disproves  his 
first  statement,  and  the  testimony  of  the  last  witness 
disproves  his  second.  I  think  we  may  conclude 
that  Mr.  Langford  fell  asleep  in  the  train  on  the  oc- 
casion of  his  journey  to  Clayborough,  and  dreamt 
an  unusually  vivid  and  circumstantial  dream  —  of 
which,  however,  we  have  now  heard  quite  enough." 

There  are  few  things  more  annoying  than  to 
find  one's  positive  convictions  met  with  incredulity. 
I  could  not  help  feeling  impatience  at  the  turn  that 

12* 


I  SO  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXFRESS. 

affairs  had  taken.  I  was  not  proof  against  the  civil 
sarcasm  of  the  chairman's  manner.  Most  intolerable 
of  all,  however,  was  the  quiet  smile  lurking  about 
the  corners  of  Benjamin  Somers'  mouth,  and  the 
half-triumphant,  half-malicious  gleam  in  the  eyes  of 
the  under-secretary.  The  man  was  evidently  puzzled, 
and  somewhat  alarmed.  His  looks  seemed  furtively 
to  interrogate  me.  Who  was  11  What  did  I  want? 
Why  had  I  come  there  to  do  him  an  ill  turn  with 
his  employers'?  What  was  it  to  me  whether  or  not 
he  was  absent  without  leave? 

Seeing  all  this,  and  perhaps  more  irritated  by  it 
than  the  thing  deserved,  I  begged  leave  to  detain 
the  attention  of  the  board  for  a  moment  longer. 
Jelf  plucked  me  impatiently  by  the  sleeve. 

"Better  let  the  thing  drop,"  he  whispered.  "The 
chairman's  right  enough.  You  dreamt  it;  and  the 
less  said  now,  the  better." 

I  was  not  to  be  silenced,  however,  in  this  fashion. 
I  had  yet  something  to  say,  and  I  would  say  it.  It 
was  to  this  effect:  —  That  dreams  were  not  usually 
productive  of  tangible  results,  and  that  I  requested 
to  know  in  what  way  the  chairman  conceived  I  had 
evolved  from  my  dream  so  substantial  and  well- 
made  a  delusion  as  the  cigar-case  which  I  had  had 
the  honour  to  place  before  him  at  the  commence- 
ment of  our  interview. 

"The  cigar-case,  I  admit,  Mr.  Langford,"  the 
chairman  replied,  is  a  very  strong  point  in  your 
evidence.  It  is  your  only  strong  point,  however, 
and  there  is  just  a  possibility  that  we  may  all  be 


THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN   EXPRESS.  l8l 

misled  by  a  mere  accidental  resemblance.  Will  you 
permit  me  to  see  the  case  again?" 

"It  is  unlikely,"  I  said,  as  I  handed  it  to  him, 
"that  any  other  should  bear  precisely  this  mono- 
gram, and  also  be  in  all  other  particulars  exactly 
similar." 

The  chairman  examined  it  for  a  moment  in 
silence,  and  then  passed  it  to  Mr.  Hunter.  Mr. 
Hunter  turned  it  over  and  over,  and  shook  his 
head. 

"This  is  no  mere  resemblance,"  he  said.  "It  is 
John  Dwerrihouse's  cigar-case  to  a  certainty.  I  re- 
member it  perfectly.  I  have  seen  it  a  hundred 
times." 

"I  believe  I  may  say  the  same,"  added  the  chair- 
man. "Yet  how  shall  we  account  for  the  way  in 
which  Mr.  Langford  asserts  that  it  came  into  his 
possession1?" 

"I  can  only  repeat,"  I  replied,  "that  I  found  it 
on  the  floor  of  the  carriage  after  Mr.  Dwerrihouse 
had  alighted.  It  was  in  leaning  out  to  look  after 
him  that  I  trod  upon  it;  and  it  was  in  running  after 
him  for  the  purpose  of  restoring  it  that  I  saw  —  or 
believed  I  saw — Mr.  Raikes  standing  aside  with  him 
in  earnest  conversation." 

Again  I  felt  Jonathan  Jelf  plucking  at  my  sleeve. 

"Look  at  Raikes,"  he  whispered.  "Look  at 
Raikes!" 

I  turned  to  where  the  under-secretary  had  been 
standing  a  moment  before,  and  saw  him,  white  as 
death,  with  lips  trembling  and  livid,  stealing  to- 
wards the  door. 


I  &2  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

To  conceive  a  sudden,  strange,  and  indefinite 
suspicion;  to  fling  myself  in  his  way;  to  take  him 
by  the  shoulders  as  if  he  were  a  child,  and  turn  his 
craven  face,  perforce,  towards  the  board,  was  with 
me  the  work  of  an  instant. 

"Look  at  him!"  I  exclaimed.  "Look  at  his 
face!  I  ask  no  better  witness  to  the  truth  of  my 
words." 

The  chairman's  brow  darkened. 

"Mr.  Raikes,"  he  said,  sternly,  "if  you  know 
anything,  you  had  better  speak." 

Vainly  trying  to  wrench  himself  from  my  grasp, 
the  under-secretary  stammered  out  an  incoherent 
denial. 

"Let  me  go!"  he  said.  "I  know  nothing — you 
have  no  right  to  detain  me — let  me  go!" 

"Did  you,  or  did  you  not,  meet  Mr.  John  Dwerri- 
house  at  Blackwater  Station1?  The  charge  brought 
against  you  is  either  true  or  false.  If  true,  you  will 
do  well  to  throw  yourself  upon  the  mercy  of  the 
board,  and  make  full  confession  of  all  that  you 
know." 

The  under-secretary  wrung  his  hands  in  an  agony 
of  helpless  terror. 

"I  was  away,"  he  cried.  "I  was  two  hundred 
miles  away  at  the  time!  I  know  nothing  about  it — 
I  have  nothing  to  confess— I  am  innocent — I  call 
God  to  witness  I  am  innocent!" 

"Two  hundred  miles  away!"  echoed  the  chair- 
man.   "What  do  you  mean1?" 

"I  was  in  Devonshire.  I  had  three  weeks'  leave 
of  absence — I  appeal   to  Mr.  Hunter — Mr.  Hunter 


THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  I  83 

knows  I  had  three  weeks'  leave  of  absence!  I  was 
in  Devonshire  all  the  time — I  can  prove  I  was  in 
Devonshire!" 

Seeing  him  so  abject,  so  incoherent,  so  wild  with 
apprehension,  the  directors  began  to  whisper  gravely 
among  themselves;  while  one  got  quietly  up,  and 
called  the  porter  to  guard  the  door. 

"What  has  your  being  in  Devonshire  to  do  with 
the  matter?"  said  the  chairman.  "When  were  you 
in  Devonshire1?" 

"Mr.  Raikes  took  his  leave  in  September,"  said 
the  secretary;  "about  the  time  when  Mr.  Dwerri- 
house  disappeared." 

"I  never  even  heard  that  he  had  disappeared 
till  I  came  back!" 

"That  must  remain  to  be  proved,"  said  the 
chairman.  "I  shall  at  once  put  this  matter  in  the 
hands  of  the  police.  In  the  meanwhile,  Mr.  Raikes, 
being  myself  a  magistrate,  and  used  to  deal  with 
these  cases,  I  advise  you  to  offer  no  resistance;  but 
to  confess  while  confession  may  yet  do  you  service. 
As  for  your  accomplice " 

The  frightened  wretch  fell  upon  his  knees. 

"I  had  no  accomplice!"  he  cried.  "Only  have 
mercy  upon  me — only  spare  my  life,  and  I  will 
confess  all!  I  didn't  mean  to  harm  him — I  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  a  hair  of  his  head !  Only  have  mercy 
upon  me,  and  let  me  go!" 

The  chairman  rose  in  his  place,  pale  and 
agitated. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  horrible 
mystery  is  this?    What  does  it  mean?" 


184  THE  FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

"As  sure  as  there  is  a  God  in  heaven,"  said 
Jonathan  Jelf,  "it  means  that  murder  has  been 
done." 

"No — no — no!"  shrieked  Raikes,  still  upon  his 
knees,  and  cowering  like  a  beaten  hound.  "Not 
murder!  No  jury  that  ever  sat  could  bring  it  in 
murder.  I  thought  I  had  only  stunned  him — I  never 
meant  to  do  more  than  stun  him!  Manslaughter — 
manslaughter — not  murder!" 

Overcome  by  the  horror  of  this  unexpected  re- 
velation, the  chairman  covered  his  face  with  his 
hand,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  remained  silent. 

"Miserable  man,"  he  said  at  length,  "you  have 
betrayed  yourself." 

"You  bade  me  confess!  You  urged  me  to  throw 
myself  upon  the  mercy  of  the  board!" 

"You  have  confessed  to  a  crime  which  no  one 
suspected  you  of  having  committed,"  replied  the 
chairman,  "and  which  this  board  has  no  power 
either  to  punish  or  forgive.  All  that  I  can  do  for 
you  is  to  advise  you  to  submit  to  the  law,  to  plead 
guilty,  and  to  conceal  nothing.  When  did  you  do 
this  deed?" 

The  guilty  man  rose  to  his  feet,  and  leaned 
heavily  against  the  table.  His  answer  came  reluc- 
tantly, like  the  speech  of  one  dreaming. 

"On  the  twenty-second  of  September!" 

On  the  twenty-second  of  September!  I  looked 
in  Jonathan  Jelf's  face,  and  he  in  mine.  I  felt  my 
own  paling  with  a  strange  sense  of  wonder  and 
dread.    I  saw  his  blench  suddenly,  even  to  the  lips. 


THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  I  85 

"Merciful  heaven!"  he  whispered,  ''what  was  It, 
then,  that  you  saw  in  the  train?" 

What  was  it  that  I  saw  in  the  train?  That  ques- 
tion remains  unanswered  to  this  day.  I  have  never 
been  able  to  reply  to  it.  I  only  know  that  it  bore 
the  living  likeness  of  the  murdered  man,  whose 
body  had  been  lying  some  ten  weeks  under  a  rough 
pile  of  branches,  and  brambles,  and  rotting  leaves, 
at  the  bottom  of  a  deserted  chalk-pit  about  half  way 
between  Blackwater  and  Mallingford.  I  know  that 
it  spoke,  and  moved,  and  looked  as  that  man  spoke, 
and  moved,  and  looked  in  life;  that  I  heard,  or 
seemed  to  hear,  things  related  which  I  could  never 
otherwise  have  learned;  that  I  was  guided,  as  it 
were,  by  that  vision  on  the  platform  to  the  identifica- 
tion of  the  murderer;  and  that,  a  passive  instrument 
myself,  I  was  destined,  by  means  of  these  mysteri- 
ous teachings,  to  bring  about  the  ends  of  justice. 
For  these  things  I  have  never  been  able  to  account. 

As  for  that  matter  of  the  cigar-case,  it  proved, 
on  inquiry,  that  the  carriage  in  which  I  travelled 
down  that  afternoon  to  Clayborough  had  not  been 
in  use  for  several  weeks,  and  was,  in  point  of  fact, 
the  same  in  which  poor  John  Dwerrihouse  had  per- 
formed his  last  journey.  The  case  had,  doubtless, 
been  dropped  by  him,  and  had  lain  unnoticed  till  I 
found  it. 

Upon  the  details  of  the  murder  I  have  no  need 
to  dwell.  Those  who  desire  more  ample  particulars 
may  find  them,  and  the  written  confession  of  Au- 
gustus Raikes,  in  the  files  of  the  "Times"  for  1856. 


I  86  THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS. 

Enough  that  the  under-secretary,  knowing  the  history 
of  the  new  line,  and  following  the  negotiation  step 
by  step  through  all  its  stages,  determined  to  waylay 
Mr.  Dwerrihouse,  rob  him  of  the  seventy^five  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  escape  to  America  with  his  booty. 
In  order  to  effect  these  ends  he  obtained  leave 
of  absence  a  few  days  before  the  time  appointed 
for  the  payment  of  the  money;  secured  his  passage 
across  the  Atlantic  in  a  steamer  advertised  to  start 
on  the  twenty-third;  provided  himself  with  a  heavily- 
loaded  "life-preserver,"  and  went  down  to  Black- 
water  to  await  the  arrival  of  his  victim.  How  he 
met  him  on  the  platform  with  a  pretended  message 
from  the  board;  how  he  offered  to  conduct  him  by 
a  short  cut  across  the  fields  to  Mallingford;  how, 
having  brought  him  to  a  lonely  place,  he  struck 
him  down  with  the  life-preserver,  and  so  killed 
him;  and  how,  finding  what  he  had  done,  he  dragged 
the  body  to  the  verge  of  an  out-of-the-way  chalk- 
pit, and  there  flung  it  in,  and  piled  it  over  with 
branches  and  brambles,  are  facts  still  fresh  in  the 
memories  of  those  who,  like  the  connoisseurs  in  De 
Quincey's  famous  essay,  regard  murder  as  a  fine 
art.  Strangely  enough,  the  murderer,  having  done 
his  work,  was  afraid  to  leave  the  country.  He  de- 
clared that  he  had  not  intended  to  take  the  director's 
life,  but  only  to  stun  and  rob  him;  and  that  finding 
the  blow  had  killed,  he  dared  not  fly  for  fear  of 
drawing  down  suspicion  upon  his  own  head.  As  a 
mere  robber  he  would  have  been  safe  in  the  States, 
but  as  a  murderer  he  would  inevitably  have  been 
pursued,  and  given  up  to  justice.     So  he  forfeited 


THE   FOUR-FIFTEEN  EXPRESS.  I  87 

his  passage,  returned  to  the  office  as  usual  at  the 
end  of  his  leave,  and  locked  up  his  ill-gotten 
thousands  till  a  more  convenient  opportunity.  In 
the  meanwhile  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding 
that  Mr.  Dwerrihouse  was  universally  believed  to 
have  absconded  with  the  money,  no  one  knew  how 
or  whither. 

Whether  he  meant  murder  or  not,  however,  Mr. 
Augustus  Raikes  paid  the  full  penalty  of  his  crime, 
and  was  hanged  at  the  Old  Bailey  in  the  second 
week  in  January,  1857.  Those  who  desire  to  make 
his  further  acquaintance  may  see  him  any  day  (ad- 
mirably done  in  wax)  in  the  Chamber  of  Horrors  at 
Madame  Tussaud's  exhibition  in  Baker  Street.  He 
is  there  to  be  found  in  the  midst  of  a  select  society 
of  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  atrocious  memory, 
dressed  in  the  close-cut  tweed  suit  which  he  wore 
on  the  evening  of  the  murder,  and  holding  in  his 
hand  the  identical  life-preserver  with  which  he  com- 
mitted it. 


SISTER  JOHANNA'S  STORY. 


SISTER  JOHANNA'S  STORY. 


If  you  have  ever  heard  of  the  Grodner  Thai, 
then  you  will  also  have  heard  of  the  village  of  St. 
Ulrich,  of  which  I,  Johanna  Roederer,  am  a  native. 
And  if,  as  is  more  likely,  you  have  never  heard  of 
either,  then  still,  though  without  knowing  it,  many 
of  you  have,  even  from  your  earliest  childhood, 
been  familiar  with  the  work  by  which,  for  many 
generations,  we  have  lived  and  prospered.  Your  rock- 
ing-horse, your  Noah's  ark,  your  first  doll,  came 
from  St.  Ulrich— for  the  Grodner  Thai  is  the  children's 
paradise,  and  supplies  the  little  ones  of  all  Europe 
with  toys.  In  every  house  throughout  the  village — 
I  might  almost  say  in  every  house  throughout  the 
valley — you  will  find  wood-carving,  painting,  or 
gilding  perpetually  going  on;  except  only  in  the 
hay-making  and  harvest-time,  when  all  the  world 
goes  up  to  the  hills  to  mow  and  reap,  and  breathe 
the  mountain  air.  Nor  do  our  carvers  carve  only 
grotesque  toys.  All  the  crucifixes  that  you  see  by 
the  wayside,  all  the  carved  stalls  and  tabernacles, 
all  the  painted  and  gilded  saints  decorating  screens 
and  side  altars  in  our  Tyrolean  churches,  are  the 
work  of  their  hands. 


ig2  sister  Johanna's  story. 

After  what  I  have  said,  you  will  no  doubt  have 
guessed  that  ours  was  a  family  of  wood-carvers. 
My  father,  who  died  when  my  sister  and  I  were 
quite  little  children,  was  a  wood-carver.  My  mother 
was  also  a  wood-carver,  as  were  her  mother  and 
grandmother  before  her;  and  Katrine  and  I  were  of 
course  brought  up  by  her  to  the  same  calling.  But, 
as  it  was  necessary  that  one  should  look  after  the 
home  duties,  and  as  Katrine  was  always  more  de- 
licate than  myself,  I  gradually  came  to  work  less 
and  less  at  the  business;  till  at  last,  what  Avith  cook- 
ing, washing,  mending,  making,  spinning,  gardening, 
and  so  forth,  I  almost  left  it  off  altogether.  Nor 
did  Katrine  work  very  hard  at  it,  either;  for,  being 
so  delicate,  and  so  pretty,  and  so  much  younger 
than  myself,  she  came,  of  course,  to  be  a  great  deal 
spoiled  and  to  have  her  own  way  in  everything. 
Besides,  she  grew  tired,  naturally,  of  cutting  nothing 
but  cocks,  hens,  dogs,  cats,  cows,  and  goats;  which 
were  all  our  mother  had  been  taught  to  make,  and, 
consequently,  all  she  could  teach  to  her  children. 

"If  I  could  carve  saints  and  angels,  like  Ulrich, 
next  door,"  Katrine  used  sometimes  to  say;  "or  if  I 
might  invent  new  beasts  out  of  my  own  head,  or  if 
I  might  cut  caricature  nutcrackers  of  the  Herr 
Purger  and  Don  Wian,  I  shouldn't  care  if  I  worked 
hard  all  day;  but  I  hate  the  cocks  and  hens,  and  I 
hate  the  dogs  and  cats,  and  I  hate  all  the  birds  and 
beasts  that  ever  went  into  the  ark — and  I  only  wish 
they  had  all  been  drowned  in  the  Deluge,  and  not 
one  left  for  a  pattern!" 

And   then   she  would  fling  her  tools  away,  and 


sister  Johanna's  story.  193 

dance  about  the  room  like  a  wild  creature,  and 
mimic  the  Herr  Purger,  who  was  the  great  wholesale 
buyer  of  all  our  St.  Ulrich  ware,  till  even  our  mother, 
grave  and  sober  woman  as  she  was,  could  not  help 
laughing,  till  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks. 

Now  the  Ulrich  next  door,  of  whom  our  little 
Katrine  used  to  speak,  was  the  elder  of  two  brothers 
named  Finazzer,  and  he  lived  in  the  house  adjoin- 
ing our  own;  for  at  St.  Ulrich,  as  in  some  of  the 
neighbouring  villages,  one  frequently  sees  two 
houses  built  together  under  one  roof,  with  gardens 
and  orchards  surrounded  by  a  common  fence.  Such 
a  house  was  the  Finazzer's  and  ours;  or  I  should 
rather  say  both  houses  were  theirs,  for  they  were 
our  landlords,  and  we  rented  our  cottage  from  them 
by  the  year. 

Ulrich,  named  after  the  patron  saint  of  our 
village,  was  a  tall,  brown,  stalwart  man,  very  grave, 
very  reserved,  very  religious,  and  the  finest  wood- 
sculptor  in  all  the  Grodner  Thai.  No  Madonnas, 
no  angels,  could  compare  with  his  for  heavenly 
grace  and  tenderness;  and  as  for  his  Christs,  a  great 
foreign  critic  who  came  to  St.  Ulrich  some  ten  or 
twelve  years  ago  said  that  no  other  modern  artist 
with  whose  works  he  was  acquainted  could  treat 
that  subject  with  anything  like  the  same  dig- 
nity and  pathos.  But  then,  perhaps,  no  other 
modern  artist  went  to  his  work  in  the  same  spirit, 
or  threw  into  it,  not  only  the  whole  force  of  a  very 
noble  and  upright  character,  but  all  the  loftiest  aspira- 
tions of  a  profoundly  religious  nature. 

His  younger  brother,  Alois,  was  a  painter— fair- 

T/ie  Black  Forest,  13 


194  sister  Johanna's  story. 

haired,  light-hearted,  pleasure-loving;  as  unlike 
Ulrich,  both  in  appearance  and  disposition,  as  it  is 
possible  to  conceive.  At  the  time  of  which  I  am 
telling  you,  he  was  a  student  in  Venice  and  had 
already  been  three  years  away  from  home.  I  used 
to  dream  dreams,  and  weave  foolish  romances  about 
Alois  and  my  little  Katrine,  picturing  to  myself  how 
he  would  some  day  come  home,  in  the  flush,  per- 
haps, of  his  first  success,  and  finding  her  so  beauti- 
ful and  a  woman  grown,  fall  in  love  with  her  at 
first  sight,  and  she  with  him;  and  the  thought  of 
this  possibility  became  at  last  such  a  happy  cer- 
tainty in  my  mind,  that  when  things  began  to  work 
round  in  quite  the  other  way,  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  believe  it.  Yet  so  it  was,  and,  much  as 
I  loved  my  darling,  and  quick-sighted  as  I  had  al- 
ways been  in  everything  that  could  possibly  concern 
her,  there  was  not  a  gossip  in  St.  Ulrich  who  did 
not  see  what  was  coming  before  I  even  suspected  it. 

When,  therefore,  my  little  Katrine  came  to  me 
one  evening  in  the  orchard  and  told  me,  half  laugh- 
ing, half  crying,  that  Ulrich  Finazzer  had  that  day 
asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  I  was  utterly  taken  by  surprise. 

"I  never  dreamed  that  he  would  think  of  me, 
dear,"  she  said,  with  her  head  upon  my  bosom. 
"He  is  so  much  too  good  and  too  clever  for  such 
a  foolish  birdie  as  poor  little  Katrine." 

"But — but  my  birdie  loves  him1?"  I  said,  kiss- 
ing her  bright  hair. 

She  half  lifted  her  head,  half  laughed  through 
her  tears,  and  said  with  some  hesitation: — 

"Oh,  yes,  I  love  him.     I — I  think  I  love  him — 


sister  Johanna's  story.  195 

and  then  I  am  quite  sure  he  loves  me,   and  that  is 
more  than  enough." 

"But,  Katrine " 

She  kissed  me,  to  stop  the  words  upon  my 
lips. 

"But  you  know  quite  well,  dear,  that  I  never 
could  love  any  lover  half  as  much  as  I  love  you; 
and  he  knows  it,  too,  for  I  told  him  so  just  now, 
and  now  please  don't  look  grave,  for  I  want  to  be 
very  happy  to-night,  and  I  can't  bear  it." 

And  I  also  wanted  her  to  be  very  happy,  so  I 
said  all  the  loving  things  I  could  think  of,  and 
when  we  went  in  to  supper  we  found  Ulrich  Finazzer 
waiting  for  us. 

"Dear  Johanna,"  he  said,  taking  me  by  both 
hands,  "you  are  to  be  my  sister  now." 

And  then  he  kissed  me  on  the  forehead.  The 
words  were  few;  but  he  had  never  spoken  to  me  or 
looked  at  me  so  kindly  before,  and  somehow  my 
heart  seemed  to  come  into  my  throat,  and  I  could 
not  answer  a  word. 

It  was  now  the  early  summer  time,  and  they 
were  to  be  married  in  the  autumn.  Ulrich,  mean- 
while, had  his  hands  full  of  work,  as  usual,  and 
there  was,  besides,  one  important  task  which  he 
wanted  to  complete  before  his  wedding.  This  task 
was  a  Christ,  larger  than  life,  which  he  designed  as 
a  gift  to  our  parish  church,  then  undergoing  com- 
plete restoration.  The  committee  of  management 
had  invited  him  in  the  first  instance  to  undertake 
the  work  as  an  order,  but  Ulrich  would  not  accept 
a  price   for  it.     He  preferred  to  give  it  as  a  free- 

13* 


ig6  sister  Johanna's  story. 

will  offering,  and  he  meant  it  to  be  the  best  piece 
of  wood-sculpture  that  had  ever  yet  left  his  hand. 
He  had  made  innumerable  designs  for  it  both  in 
clay  and  on  paper,  and  separate  studies  from  life 
for  the  limbs,  hands,  and  feet.  In  short,  it  was  to 
be  no  ordinary  piece  of  mere  conventional  Grodner 
Thai  work,  but  a  work  of  art  in  the  true  sense  of 
the  word.  In  the  meanwhile,  he  allowed  no  one 
to  see  the  figure  in  progress — not  even  Katrine; 
but  worked  upon  it  with  closed  doors,  and  kept  it 
covered  with  a  linen  cloth  whenever  his  workshop 
was  open. 

So  the  Summer  time  wore  on,  and  the  roses 
bloomed  abundantly  in  our  little  garden,  and  the 
corn  yellowed  slowly  on  the  hill-sides,  and  the  wild 
white  strawberry-blossoms  turned  to  tiny  strawberries, 
ruby-red,  on  every  mossy  bank  among  the  fir-forests 
of  the  Seisser  Alp.  And  still  Ulrich  laboured  on  at 
his  great  work,  and  sculptured  many  a  gracious 
saint  besides;  and  still  the  one  object  of  his  earthly 
worship  was  our  little  laughing  Katrine. 

Whether  it  was  that,  being  so  grave  himself, 
and  she  so  gay,  he  loved  her  the  better  for  the  con- 
trast, I  cannot  tell;  but  his  affection  for  her  seemed 
to  deepen  daily.  I  watched  it  as  one  might  watch 
the  growth  of  some  rare  flower,  and  I  wondered 
sometimes  if  she  prized  it  as  she  ought.  Yet  I 
scarcely  know  how,  child  that  she  was,  she  should 
ever  have  risen  to  the  heights  or  sounded  the  depths 
of  such  a  nature  as  his.  That  she  could  not  ap- 
preciate him,  however,  would  have  mattered  little, 
if  she  had  loved  him  more.     There  was  the  pity  of 


sister  Johanna's  story.  197 

it.  She  had  accepted  him,  as  many  a  very  young 
girl  accepts  her  first  lover,  simply  because  he  was 
her  first.  She  was  proud  of  his  genius — proud  of 
his  preference — proud  of  the  house,  and  the  lands, 
and  the  worldly  goods  that  were  soon  to  be  hers; 
but  for  that  far  greater  wealth  of  love,  she  held  it 
all  too  lightly. 

Seeing  this  day  after  day,  with  the  knowledge 
that  nothing  I  could  say  would  make  things  better, 
I  fell,  without  being  conscious  of  it,  into  a  sad  and 
silent  way  that  arose  solely  out  of  my  deep  love  for 
them  both,  and  had  no  root  of  selfishness  in  it,  as 
my  own  heart  told  me  then,  and  tells  me  to  this 
day. 

In  the  midst  of  this  time,  so  full  of  happiness 
for  Ulrich,  so  full  of  anxiety  for  me,  Alois  Finazzer 
came  home  suddenly.  We  had  been  expecting  him 
in  a  vague  way  ever  since  the  Spring,  but  the  sur- 
prise when  he  walked  in  unannounced  was  as  great 
as  if  we  had  not  expected  him  at  all. 

He  kissed  us  all  on  both  cheeks,  and  sat  down 
as  if  he  had  not  been  away  for  a  day. 

"What  a  rich  fellow  I  am!"  he  said,  joyously. 
"I  left  only  a  grave  elder  brother  behind  when  I 
went  to  Venice,  and  I  come  back  finding  two  dear 
little  sisters  to  welcome  me  home  again." 

And  then  he  told  us  that  he  had  just  taken  the 
gold  medal  at  the  Academy,  that  he  had  sold  his 
prize-picture  for  two  hundred  florins,  and  that  he 
had  a  pocketful  of  presents  for  us  all — a  necklace 
for  Katrine,  a  spectacle-case  for  our  mother,  and  a 
housewife  for  myself.     When  he  put  the  necklace 


198  sister  Johanna's  story. 

round  my  darling's  neck  he  kissed  her  again,  and 
praised  her  eyes,  and  said  he  should  some  day  put 
his  pretty  little  sister  into  one  of  his  pictures. 

He  was  greatly  changed.  He  went  away  a  curly- 
headed  lad  of  eighteen;  he  came  back  a  man, 
bearded  and  self-confident. 

Three  years,  at  certain  turning-points  on  the 
road  of  life,  work  with  us  more  powerfully,  whether 
for  better  or  worse,  than  would  ten  years  at  any 
other  period.  I  thought  I  liked  Alois  Finazzer  better 
when  he  was  those  three  years  younger. 

Not  so  Katrine,  however — not  so  our  mother — 
not  so  the  St.  Ulrich  folk,  all  of  whom  were  loud 
in  his  praise.  Handsome,  successful,  gay,  generous, 
he  treated  the  men,  laughed  with  the  girls,  and 
carried  all  before  him. 

As  for  Ulrich,  he  put  his  work  aside,  and  cleared 
his  brow,  and  made  holiday  for  two  whole  days, 
going  round  with  his  brother  from  house  to  house, 
and  telling  everyone  how  Alois  had  taken  the  great 
gold  medal  in  Venice.  Proud  and  happy  as  he  was, 
however,  he  was  prouder  and  happier  still  when, 
some  three  or  four  days  later,  at  a  meeting  of  the 
Church  Committee  of  management,  the  Commune 
formally  invited  Alois  to  paint  an  altar-piece  for  the 
altar  of  San  Marco  at  the  price  of  three  hundred 
florins. 

That  evening  Ulrich  invited  us  to  supper,  and 
we  drank  Alois's  health  in  a  bottle  of  good  Barbera 
wine.  He  was  to  stay  at  home  now,  instead  of 
going  back  to  Venice,  and  he  was  to  have  a  large 
room  at  the  back  of  Ulrich's  workshop  for  a  studio. 


sister  Johanna's  story.  199 

"I'll  bring  your  patron  saint  into  my  picture  if 
you  will  sit  for  her  portrait,  Katrine,"  said  Alois, 
laughingly. 

And  Katrine  blushed  and  said,  "Yes;"  and  Ul- 
rich  was  delighted ;  and  Alois  pulled  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  began  sketching  her  head  on  the 
spot. 

"Only  you  must  try  to  think  of  serious  things, 
and  not  laugh  when  you  are  sitting  for  a  saint,  my 
little  Madchen,"  said  Ulrich,  tenderly;  whereupon 
Katrine  blushed  still  more  deeply,  and  Alois,  with- 
out looking  up  from  his  drawing,  promised  that 
they  would  both  be  as  grave  as  judges  whenever  the 
sittings  were  going  on. 

And  now  there  began  for  me  a  period  of  such 
misery  that  even  at  this  distance  of  time  I  can 
scarcely  bear  to  speak  or  think  of  it.  There,  day 
after  day,  was  Alois  painting  in  his  new  studio,  and 
Katrine  sitting  to  him  for  Santa  Catarina,  while 
Ulrich,  unselfish,  faithful,  trustful,  worked  on  in  the 
next  room,  absorbed  in  his  art,  and  not  only  un- 
conscious of  treachery,  but  incapable  of  conceiving 
it  as  a  possibility.  How  I  tried  to  watch  over  her, 
and  would  fain  have  watched  over  her  still  more 
closely  if  I  could,  is  known  to  myself  alone.  My 
object  was  to  be  with  her  throughout  all  those  fatal 
sittings;  Alois's  object  was  to  make  the  appoint- 
ments for  hours  when  my  household  duties  com- 
pelled me  to  remain  at  home.  He  soon  found  out 
that  my  eyes  were  opened.  From  that  moment  it 
was  a  silent,  unacknowledged  fight  between  us,  and 
we  were  always  fighting  it. 


200  sister  Johanna's  story. 

And  now,  as  his  work  drew  nearer  to  completion, 
Ulrich  seemed  every  day  to  live  less  for  the  people 
and  things  about  him,  and  more  for  his  art.  Al- 
ways somewhat  over-silent  and  reserved,  he  now 
seemed  scarcely  conscious,  at  times,  of  even  the  pre- 
sence of  others.  He  spoke  and  moved  as  in  a 
dream;  went  to  early  mass  every  morning  at  four; 
fasted  three  days  out  of  seven;  and,  having  wrought 
himself  up  to  a  certain  pitch  of  religious  and  ar- 
tistic excitement,  lived  in  a  world  of  his  own  creation, 
from  which  even  Katrine  was  for  the  time  excluded. 
Things  being  thus,  what  could  I  do  but  hold  my 
peace?  To  speak  to  Ulrich  would  have  been  im- 
possible at  any  time;  to  speak  to  my  darling  (she 
being,  perhaps,  wholly  unconscious)  might  be  to 
create  the  very  peril  I  dreaded;  to  appeal  to  Alois, 
I  felt  beforehand,  would  be  worse  than  useless.  So 
I  kept  my  trouble  to  myself,  and  prayed  that  the 
weeks  might  pass  quickly,  and  bring  their  wedding- 
day. 

Now,  just  about  this  time  of  which  I  am  telling 
(that  is  towards  the  middle  of  August)  came  round 
the  great  annual  fete,  or  Sagro,  as  we  call  it,  at 
Botzen;  and  to  this  fete  Katrine  and  I  had  for 
some  years  been  in  the  habit  of  going — walking  to 
Atzwang  the  first  day  by  way  of  Castelruth;  sleeping 
near  Atzwang  in  the  house  of  our  aunt,  Maria  Bern- 
hard,  whose  husband  kept  the  Gasthaus  called  the 
Schwarze  Adler;  taking  the  railway  next  morning 
from  Atzwang  to  Botzen,  and  there  spending  the 
day  of  the  Sagro;  and  returning  in  the  same  order 
as  we  came.     This  year,  however,  having  the  dread 


SISTER  JOHANNA  S   STORY.  201 

of  Alois  before  my  eyes,  and  knowing  that  Ulrich 
would  not  leave  his  work,  I  set  my  face  against  the 
Botzen  expedition,  and  begged  my  little  sister,  since 
she  could  not  have  the  protection  of  her  betrothed 
husband,  to  give  it  up.  And  so  I  think  she  would 
have  done  at  first,  but  that  Alois  was  resolute  to 
have  us  go;  and  at  last  even  Ulrich  urged  it  upon 
us,  saying  that  he  would  not  have  his  little  Madchen 
balked  of  her  festa  simply  because  he  was  too  busy 
to  take  her  there  himself.  Would  not  Johanna  be 
there  to  take  care  of  her,  Alois  to  take  care  of 
them  both?  So  my  protest  was  silenced,  and  we 
went. 

It  is  a  long  day's  walk  from  St.  Ulrich  to 
Atzwang,  and  we  did  not  reach  our  aunt's  house 
till  nearly  supper-time;  so  that  it  was  quite  late  be- 
fore we  went  up  to  our  room.  And  now  my  dar- 
ling, after  being  in  wild  spirits  all  day,  became  sud- 
denly silent,  and  instead  of  going  to  bed,  stayed  by 
the  window,  looking  at  the  moon. 

"What  is  my  birdie  thinking  of?"  I  said,  putting 
my  arm  about  her  waist. 

"I  am  thinking,"  she  said,  softly,  "how  the 
moon  is  shining  now  at  St.  Ulrich  on  our  mother's 
bedroom  window,  and  on  our  father's  grave." 

And  with  this  she  laid  her  head  down  upon  my 
shoulder,  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

I  have  reproached  myself  since  for  letting  that 
moment  pass  as  I  did.  I  believe  I  might  have  had 
her  confidence  if  I  had  tried,  and  then  what  a  world 
of  sorrow  might  have  been  averted  from  us  all! 

We  reached  Botzen  next  morning  in  time  for 


202  SISTER  JOHANNA'S  STORY. 

the  six  o'clock  mass;  went  to  high  mass  again  at 
nine;  and  strolled  among  the  booths  between  the 
services.  Here  Alois,  as  usual,  was  very  free  with 
his  money,  buying  ribbons  and  trinkets  for  Katrine, 
and  behaving  in  every  way  as  if  he,  and  not  Ulrich, 
were  her  acknowledged  lover.  At  eleven,  having 
met  some  of  our  St.  Ulrich  neighbours,  we  made  a 
party  and  dined  all  together  at  a  Gasthaus  in  the 
Silbergasse;  and  after  dinner  the  young  men  proposed 
to  take  us  to  see  an  exhibition  of  rope-dancers  and 
tumblers.  Now  I  knew  that  Ulrich  would  not  ap- 
prove of  this,  and  I  entreated  my  darling  for  his 
sake,  if  not  for  mine,  to  stay  away.  But  she  would 
not  listen  to  me. 

"Ulrich,  Ulrich!"  she  repeated,  pettishly.  "Don't 
tease  me  about  Ulrich;  I  am  tired  of  his  very 
name ! " 

The  next  moment  she  had  taken  Alois's  arm, 
and  we  were  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd. 

Finding  she  would  go,  I  of  course  went  also, 
though  sorely  against  my  inclination;  and  one  of 
our  St.  Ulrich  friends  gave  me  his  arm,  and  got  me 
through.  The  crowd,  however,  was  so  great  that  I 
lost  sight  somehow  of  Alois  and  Katrine,  and  found 
myself  landed  presently  inside  the  booth  and  sitting 
on  a  front  seat  next  to  the  orchestra,  alone  with 
the  St.  Ulrich  people.  We  kept  seats  for  them  as 
long  as  we  could,  and  stood  upon  the  bench  to  look 
for  them,  till  at  last  the  curtain  rose,  and  we  had 
to  sit  down  without  them. 

I  saw  nothing  of  the  performance.  To  this  day 
I  have  no  idea  how  long  it  lasted,  or  what  it  con- 


sister  johanna's  story.  203 

sisted  of.  I  remember  nothing  but  the  anxiety  with 
which  I  kept  looking  towards  the  door,  and  the 
deadly  sinking  at  my  heart  as  the  minutes  dragged 
by.  To  go  in  search  of  them  was  impossible,  for 
the  entrance  was  choked,  and  there  was  no  standing- 
room  in  any  part  of  the  booth,  so  that  even  when 
the  curtain  fell  we  were  fully  another  ten  minutes 
getting  out. 

You  have  guessed  it,  perhaps,  before  I  tell  you. 
They  were  not  in  the  market-place;  they  were  not 
at  the  Gasthaus;  they  were  not  in  the  Cathedral. 

"The  tall  young  man  in  a  grey  and  green  coat, 
and  the  pretty  girl  with  a  white  rose  in  her  hair1?" 
said  a  bystander.  "Tush,  my  dear,  don't  be  uneasy. 
They  are  gone  home;  I  saw  them  running  towards 
the  station  more  than  half  an  hour  ago." 

So  we  flew  to  the  station,  and  there  one  of  the 
porters,  who  was  an  Atzwang  man  and  knew  us 
both,  confirmed  the  dreadful  truth.  They  were 
gone  indeed,  but  they  were  not  gone  home.  Just 
in  time  to  catch  the  Express,  they  had  taken  their 
tickets  through  to  Venice,  and  were  at  this  moment 
speeding  southwards. 

How  I  got  home — not  stopping  at  all  at  Atzwang, 
but  going  straight  away  on  foot  in  the  broiling  after- 
noon sun — never  resting  till  I  reached  Castelruth, 
a  little  after  dusk — lying  down  outside  my  bed  and 
sobbing  all  the  night — getting  up  at  the  first  glim- 
mer of  grey  dawn  and  going  on  again  before  the 
sun  was  up — how  I  did  all  this,  faint  for  want  of 
food,  yet  unable  to  eat;  weary  for  want  of  rest,  yet 
unable   to   sleep — I  know  not.     But  I  did  it,   and 


204  SISTER  JOHANNA'S  STORY. 

was  home  again  at  St.  Ulrich,  kneeling  beside  our 
mother's  chair,  and  comforting  her  as  best  I  could, 
by  seven. 

"How  is  Ulrich  to  be  told?" 

It  was  her  first  question.  It  was  the  question  I 
had  been  asking  myself  all  the  way  home.  I  knew 
well,  however,  that  I  must  be  the  one  to  break  it  to 
him.  It  was  a  terrible  task,  and  I  put  it  from  me 
as  long  as  possible. 

When  at  last  I  did  go,  it  was  past  mid-day. 
The  workshop  door  stood  open — the  Christ,  just 
showing  a  vague  outline  through  the  folds,  was 
covered  with  a  sheet,  and  standing  up  against  the 
wall — and  Ulrich  was  working  on  the  drapery  of  a 
St.  Francis,  the  splinters  from  which  were  flying  off 
rapidly  in  every  direction. 

Seeing  me  on  the  threshold,  he  looked  up  and 
smiled. 

"So  soon  back,  Hebe  Johanna?"  he  said.  "We 
did  not  expect  you  till  evening." 

Then,  finding  I  made  no  answer,  he  paused  in 
his  work,  and  said,  quickly: — 

"What  is  the  matter?    Is  she  ill?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"No,"  I  said,  "she  is  not  ill." 

"Where  is  she,  then?" 

"She  is  not  ill,"  I  said,  again,  "but — she  is  not 
here." 

And  then  I  told  him. 

He  heard  me  out  in  dead  silence,  never  moving 
so  much  as  a  finger,  only  growing  whiter  as  I  went 
on.     Then,  when  I  had  done,  he  went  over  to  the 


sister  Johanna's  story.  205 

window,  and  remained  standing  with  his  back  to- 
wards me  for  some  minutes. 

"And  you?"  he  said,  presently,  still  without  turn- 
ing his  head.  "And  you — through  all  these  weeks 
— you  never  saw  or  suspected  anything?" 

"I  feared — I  was  not  sure — " 

He  turned  upon  me  with  a  terrible  pale  anger 
in  his  face. 

"You  feared — you  were  not  sure!"  he  said, 
slowly.  "That  is  to  say,  you  saw  it  going  on,  and 
let  it  go  on,  and  would  not  put  out  your  hand  to 
save  us  all!  False!  false!  false! — all  false  together 
— false  love,  false  brother,  false  friend!" 

"You  are  not  just  to  me,  Ulrich,"  I  said;  for 
to  be  called  false  by  him  was  more  than  I  could 
bear. 

"Am  I  not  just?  Then  I  pray  that  God  will  be 
more  just  to  you,  and  to  them,  than  I  can  ever  be; 
and  that  His  justice  may  be  the  justice  of  vengeance 
— swift,  and  terrible,  and  without  mercy." 

And  saying  this  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  veiled 
Christ,  and  cursed  us  all  three  with  a  terrible,  pas- 
sionate curse,  like  the  curse  of  a  prophet  of  old. 

For  one  moment  my  heart  stood  still,  and  I  felt 
as  if  there  was  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  die — but 
it  was  only  for  that  one  moment;  for  I  knew,  even 
before  he  had  done  speaking,  that  no  words  of  his 
could  harm  either  my  poor  little  erring  Katrine  or 
myself.  And  then,  having  said  so  as  gently  as  I 
could,  I  formally  forgave  him  in  her  name  and 
mine,  and  went  away. 

That  night  Ulrich  Finazzer  shut  up   his  house 


206  sister  Johanna's  story. 

and  disappeared,  no  one  knew  whither.  When  I 
questioned  the  old  woman  who  lived  with  him  as 
servant,  she  said  that  he  had  paid  and  dismissed 
her  a  little  before  dusk;  that  she  then  thought  he 
was  looking  very  ill,  and  that  she  had  observed 
how,  instead  of  being  as  usual  hard  at  work  all  day 
in  the  workshop,  he  had  fetched  his  gun  out  of  the 
kitchen  about  two  o'clock,  and  carried  it  up  to  his 
bedroom,  where,  she  believed,  he  had  spent  nearly 
all  the  afternoon  cleaning  it.  This  was  all  she  had 
to  tell;  but  it  was  more  than  enough  to  add  to  the 
burden  of  my  terrors. 

Oh,  the  weary,  weary  time  that  followed — the 
long,  sad,  solitary  days — the  days  that  became  weeks 
— the  weeks  that  became  months — the  Autumn  that 
chilled  and  paled  as  it  wore  on  towards  Winter — 
the  changing  wood — the  withering  leaves — the  snow 
that  whitened  daily  on  the  great  peaks  round  about! 
Thus  September  and  October  passed  away,  and  the 
last  of  the  harvest  was  gathered  in,  and  November 
came  with  bitter  winds  and  rain;  and  save  a  few 
hurried  lines  from  Katrine,  posted  in  Perugia,  I 
knew  nothing  of  the  fate  of  all  whom  I  had  loved 
and  lost. 

"We  were  married,"  she  wrote,  "in  Venice,  and 
Alois  talks  of  spending  the  Winter  in  Rome.  I 
should  be  perfectly  happy  if  I  knew  that  you  and 
Ulrich  had  forgiven  us." 

This  was  all.  She  gave  me  no  address;  but  I 
wrote  to  her  at  the  Poste  Restante  Perugia,  and 
again  to  the  Poste  Restante,  Rome;  both  of  which 


sister  Johanna's  story,  207 

letters,  I  presume,   lay  unclaimed  till  destroyed  by 
the  authorities,  for  she  never  replied  to  either. 

And  now  the  Winter  came  on  in  earnest,  as 
Winter  always  comes  in  our  high  valleys,  and 
Christmas-time  drew  round  again;  and  on  the  eve 
of  St.  Thomas,  Ulrich  Finazzer  returned  to  his 
house  as  suddenly  and  silently  as  he  had  left  it. 

Next  door  neighbours  as  we  were,  we  should 
not  have  known  of  his  return  but  for  the  trampled 
snow  upon  the  path,  and  the  smoke  going  up  from 
the  workshop  chimney.  No  other  sign  of  life  or 
occupation  was  to  be  seen.  The  shutters  remained 
unopened.  The  doors,  both  front  and  back,  re- 
mained fast  locked.  If  any  neighbour  knocked, 
he  was  left  to  knock  unanswered.  Even  the  old 
woman  who  used  to  be  his  servant,  was  turned 
away  by  a  stern  voice  from  within,  bidding  her 
begone  and  leave  him  at  peace. 

That  he  was  at  work  was  certain;  for  we  could 
hear  him  in  the  workshop  by  night  as  well  as  by 
day.  But  he  could  work  there  as  in  a  tomb,  for 
the  room  was  lighted  by  a  window  in  the  roof. 

Thus  St.  Thomas's  Day,  and  the  next  day  which 
was  the  fourth  Sunday  in  Advent,  went  by;  and 
still  he  who  had  ever  been  so  constant  at  mass 
showed  no  sign  of  coming  out  amongst  us.  On 
Monday  our  good  cure  walked  down,  all  through 
the  fresh  snow  (for  there  had  been  a  heavy  fall  in 
the  night),  on  purpose  to  ask  if  we  were  sure  that 
Ulrich  was  really  in  his  house;  if  we  had  yet  seen 
him;   and  if  we  knew  what  he  did  for  food,  being 


208  sister  Johanna's  story. 

shut  in  there  quite  alone.  But  to  these  questions 
we  could  give  no  satisfactory  reply. 

That  day  when  we  had  dined,  I  put  some  bread 
and  meat  in  a  basket  and  left  it  at  his  door;  but 
it  lay  there  untouched  all  through  the  day  and 
night,  and  in  the  morning  I  fetched  it  back  again, 
with  the  food  still  in  it. 

This  was  the  fourth  day  since  his  return.  It 
was  very  dreadful — I  cannot  tell  you  how  dreadful 
— to  know  that  he  was  so  near,  yet  never  even  to 
see  his  shadow  on  a  blind.  As  the  day  wore  on 
my  suspense  became  intolerable.  To-night,  I  told 
myself,  would  be  Christmas  Eve;  to-morrow  Christ- 
mas Day.  Was  it  possible  that  his  heart  would  not 
soften  if  he  remembered  our  Happy  Christmas  of 
only  last  year,  when  he  and  Katrine  were  not  yet 
betrothed;  how  he  supped  with  us,  and  how  we  all 
roasted  nuts  upon  the  hearth  and  sang  part-songs 
after  supper?  Then,  again,  it  seemed  incredible 
that  he  should  not  go  to  church  on  Christmas  Day. 

Thus  the  day  went  by,  and  the  evening  dusk 
came  on,  and  the  village  choir  came  round  singing 
carols  from  house  to  house,  and  still  he  made  no 
sign. 

Now  what  with  the  suspense  of  knowing  him 
to  be  so  near,  and  the  thought  of  my  little  Katrine 
far  away  in  Rome,  and  the  remembrance  of  how 
he — he  whom  I  had  honoured  and  admired  above 
all  the  world  my  whole  life  long — had  called  down 
curses  on  us  both  the  very  last  time  that  he  and  I 
stood  face  to  face — what  with  all  this,  I  say,  and 
what   with  the   season  and  its  associations,  I  had 


sister  Johanna's  story.  209 

such  a  great  restlessness  and  anguish  upon  me  that 
I  sat  up  trying  to  read  my  Bible  long  after  mother 
had  gone  to  bed.  But  my  thoughts  wandered 
continually  from  the  text,  and  at  last  the  restlessness 
so  gained  upon  me  that  I  could  sit  still  no  longer, 
and  so  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room. 

And  now  suddenly,  while  I  was  pacing  to  and 
fro,  I  heard,  or  fancied  I  heard,  a  voice  in  the 
garden  calling  to  me  by  name.  I  stopped  —  I 
listened— I  trembled.  My  very  heart  stood  still! 
Then,  hearing  no  more,  I  opened  the  window  and 
outer  shutters,  and  instantly  there  rushed  in  a  torrent 
of  icy  cold  air  and  a  flood  of  brilliant  moonlight, 
and  there,  on  the  shining  snow  below,  stood  Ulrich 
Finazzer. 

Himself,  and  yet  so  changed!  Worn,  haggard, 
grey. 

I  saw  him,  I  tell  you,  as  plainly  as  I  see  my 
own  hand  at  this  moment.  He  was  standing  close, 
quite  close,  under  the  window,  with  the  moonlight 
full  upon  him. 

"Ulrich!"  I  said,  and  my  own  voice  sounded 
strange  to  me,  somehow,  in  the  dead  waste  and 
silence  of  the  night — "Ulrich,  are  you  come  to  tell 
me  we  are  friends  again?" 

But  instead  of  answering  me  he  pointed  to  a 
mark  on  his  forehead — a  small  dark  mark,  that 
looked  at  this  distance  and  by  this  light  like  a 
bruise — cried  aloud  with  a  strange  wild  cry,  less 
like  a  human  voice  than  a  far-off  echo,  "The  brand 
of  Cain!   The  brand  of  Cain!"   and  so  flung  up  his 

The  Black  Forest.  1 4 


210  SISTER  JOHANNA'S  STORY. 

arms  with  a  despairing  gesture,  and  fled  away  into 
the  night. 

The  rest  of  my  story  may  be  told  in  a  few 
words — the  fewer  the  better.  Insane  with  the  desire 
of  vengeance,  Ulrich  Finazzer  had  tracked  the 
fugitives  from  place  to  place,  and  slain  his  brother 
at  mid-day  in  the  streets  of  Rome.  He  escaped 
unmolested,  and  was  well  nigh  over  the  Austrian 
border  before  the  authorities  began  to  inquire  into 
the  particulars  of  the  murder.  He  then,  as  was 
proved  by  a  comparison  of  dates,  must  have  come 
straight  home  by  way  of  Mantua,  Verona,  and 
Botzen,  with  no  other  object,  apparently,  than  to 
finish  the  statue  that  he  had  designed  for  an  offering 
to  the  church.  He  worked  upon  it,  accordingly,  as 
I  have  said,  for  four  days  and  nights  incessantly, 
completed  it  to  the  last  degree  of  finish,  and  then, 
being  in  who  can  tell  how  terrible  a  condition  of 
remorse,  and  horror,  and  despair,  sought  to  expiate 
his  crime  with  his  blood.  They  found  him  shot 
through  the  head  by  his  own  hand,  lying  quite  dead 
at  the  feet  of  the  statue  upon  which  he  had  been 
working,  probably,  up  to  the  last  moment;  his  tools 
lying  close  by;  the  pistol  still  fast  in  his  clenched 
hand,  and  the  divine  pitying  face  of  the  Redeemer 
whose  law  he  had  outraged,  bending  over  him  as  if 
in  sorrow  and  forgiveness. 

Our  mother  has  now  been  dead  some  years; 
strangers  occupy  the  house  in  which  Ulrich  Finazzer 
came  to  his  dreadful  death;  and  already  the  double 
tragedy   is    almost  forgotten.     In   the   sad,   faded 


sister  Johanna's  story.  211 

woman,  prematurely  grey,  who  lives  with  me,  ever 
working  silently,  steadily,  patiently,  from  morning 
till  night  at  our  hereditary  trade,  few  who  had 
known  her  in  the  freshness  of  her  youth  would  now 
recognise  my  beautiful  Katrine.  Thus  from  day  to 
day,  from  year  to  year,  we  journey  on  together, 
nearing  the  end. 

Did  I  indeed  see  Ulrich  Finazzer  that  night  of 
his  self-murder?  If  I  did  so  with  my  bodily  eyes 
and  it  was  no  illusion  of  the  senses,  then  most 
surely  I  saw  him  not  in  life,  for  that  dark  mark 
which  looked  to  me  in  the  moonlight  like  a  bruise 
was  the  bullet-hole  in  his  brow. 

But  did  I  see  him?  It  is  a  question  I  ask  my- 
self again  and  again,  and  have  asked  myself  for 
years.     Ah!  who  can  answer  it? 


144 


ALL-SAINTS'  EVE. 

A  STORY  OF  CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE. 


[This  story,  written  some  seventeen  or  eighteen 
years  ago,  was  founded,  to  the  best  of  my  recollec- 
tion, on  the  particulars  of  a  French  trial  that  I 
read  in  some  old  volume  of  Causes  CelZbres,  or 
Causes  Judiciaires,  the  title  of  which  I  have  now 
forgotten.  I  no  longer  remember  how  much  of  it 
is  fact,  or  how  much  fiction;  or  even  whether  the 
names  and  dates  are  retained  unaltered.] 


ALL-SAINTS'    EVE. 


CHAPTER  I. 
The    Mountaineers. 

It  was  a  sultry  day  in  the  month  of  August, 
a.d.  1 710.  The  place  was  wild  and  solitary  enough 
— a  narrow  ledge  of  rock  jutting  out  from  a  pre- 
cipitous mountain-side  in  the  department  of  the 
Haute  Auvergne.  The  mountain  was  volcanic — 
bare  and  blackened  towards  the  west;  grassy  to  the 
east  and  south;  clothed  with  thick  chestnut-woods 
about  the  base.  A  sea  of  dusky  peaks  stretched 
all  around.  The  deep  blue  sky  burned  overhead. 
All  was  repose;  all  was  silence — silence  in  the  grass, 
in  the  air,  on  the  mountain-side. 

Upon  this  shelf  of  rock  lay  three  men,  sound 
asleep;  with  their  heads  in  the  shade,  their  feet  in 
the  sun,  and  the  remains  of  a  brown  loaf  and  a  big 
cheese  lying  beside  them  on  the  grass. 

The  air  up  here  was  as  still  to-day,  and  as 
languid,  as  down  in  the  green  valleys  below.  To- 
wards the  south,  a  faint  white  mist  dulled  the  dis- 
tance; but  in  the  direction  of  Clermont,  on  the 
north,  every  summit  rose  clear  and  keen  against  the 
sky.   Most  conspicuous  amongst  these  was  the  long- 


2l6  all-saints'  eve. 

toothed  ridge  of  the  Mont  Dor;  and  loftiest  of  all, 
though  apparently  farthest,  the  solitary  summit  of 
the  Puy  de  Dome.  Here  and  there  a  few  scattered 
sheep  or  cows  might  be  seen  as  mere  moving  specks 
on  some  green  slope  of  high  level  pasture.  Now 
and  then,  the  faint  bleating  of  a  stray  lamb,  or  the 
bark  of  a  herdsman's  dog,  or  the  piping  of  some 
distant  shepherd  boy  "piping  as  though  he  should 
never  grow  old,"  just  stirred  the  silence.  But  for 
these  vague  sounds  and  the  low  humming  of  insects 
in  the  grass,  all  was  so  profoundly  still  that  it 
seemed  as  if  Nature  herself  were  holding  her  breath, 
and  as  if  the  very  perfumes  were  asleep  in  the  hearts 
of  the  wild  flowers. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  this  charmed  silence, 
the  prolonged  blast  of  a  huntsman's  horn,  and  the 
deep  baying  of  many  hounds,  came  sweeping  up 
the  ravine  below.  The  sleepers  sprang  to  their  feet, 
rubbed  their  eyes,  and  peered  over  the  brink  of  the 
precipice. 

"  'Tis  Madame  la  Comtesse  out  with  the  hounds!" 
said  the  elder  of  the  three  —  a  big,  burly,  sun- 
browned  mountaineer  of  some  fifty-five  or  sixty  years 
of  age. 

"Peste!  It  is  my  luck  never  to  be  in  the  way 
when  she  rides!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  two  younger 
herdsmen.  "Here  is  the  third  time  our  new  mis- 
tress has  hunted  of  late,  and  I  have  never  yet  seen 
her." 

The  horns  rang  out  again,  but  this  time  farther 
away  and  more  faintly.    Once  more,  and  it  was  but 


all-saints'  eve.  217 

a  breath  upon  the  breeze.  Then  all  was  silent  as 
before. 

"They  have  gone  round  by  the  Gorge  des 
Loups,"  said  the  elder  of  the  trio. 

Then,  looking  round  the  horizon,  he  added: — 

"There  is  a  storm  brewing  somewhere — and  the 
shadows  are  lengthening.  'Tis  time  we  went  down 
to  the  Buron,  lads,  and  saw  to  the  milking." 

Now  these  three  constituted  the  usual  triumvirate 
of  the  Haute  Auvergne — the  vacher,  or  cowkeeper, 
(sometimes  called  the  buronnier)  who  makes  the 
cheeses  which  form  the  principal  revenue  of  the 
landowners  in  this  part  of  France;  the  boutilier  who 
makes  the  butter;  and  the  pdtre,  or  herdsman,  who 
looks  after  the  cows,  and  keeps  the  Buron  and  dairy 
in  order.  The  distinctions  of  rank  among  these 
three  are  strictly  observed. 

The  vacher  is  a  person  of  authority,  "a  wise 
fellow,  and,  what  is  more,  an  officer;"  the  boutilier 
comes  next  in  dignity;  and  the  pdtre  is  under  both. 
The  Buron,  or  little  wooden  hut,  in  which  they  live 
during  the  six  Summer  months,  in  Switzerland 
would  be  called  a  chalet.  It  is  generally  built  of 
wood,  and  divided  into  three  chambers,  the  first  of 
which  is  for  living  and  cooking  in,  and  is  provided 
with  a  rude  fire-place  and  chimney;  the  second  is 
for  the  cheese-making,  and  contains  milk-pails, 
churns,  and  other  implements;  the  third  serves  for 
a  cheese-room,  store-room,  and  sleeping-room.  A 
small  kitchen-garden,  a  stable,  a  pigsty,  and  an 
enclosure  in  which  the  cattle  take  refuge  in  rough 
weather,  completes  the  establishment. 


21  8  all-saints'  eve. 

The  Buron  to  which  the  three  herdsmen  now 
took  their  way  stood  on  a  green  slope  surrounded 
by  oaks,  about  six  hundred  feet  below  the  spot  on 
which  they  had  been  sleeping.  As  they  went  along, 
the  cows  came  to  their  call  and  followed  them, 
knowing  that  milking-time  was  come.  Every  cow 
— and  there  were  fifty  in  all — was  branded  on  the 
flank  with  a  coronet  and  an  initial  P,  thus  showing 
them  to  be  the  property  of  the  Countess  de  Pey- 
relade,  a  young  and  wealthy  widow  whose  estates  ex- 
tended for  many  miles  to  the  eastward  of  the  Plomb 
de  Cantal.  Other  herds,  other  Burons,  other  de- 
pendents, she  had  scattered  about  the  neighbouring 
hillsides,  all  portioned  off  in  the  same  way — namely, 
fifty  cows  and  three  men  to  each  district. 

"Tell  us,  Pere  Jacques,"  said  the  boutilier  when, 
the  milking  being  done,  the  men  sat  outside  the 
Buron  door,  smoking  and  chatting,  "tell  us  what 
our  new  lady  is  like." 

"Like!"  repeated  the  cowkeeper.  "Eh,  mon 
gargon,  it  would  take  a  more  skilful  tongue  than 
mine  to  describe  her!  She  is  more  beautiful  than 
the  Madonna  in  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Flour." 

"When  did  you  see  her,  Pere  Jacques,  and 
where?"  asked  the  pdtre. 

"Mon  en/ant,  I  have  seen  her  from  near  by  and 
from  afar  off.  I  have  seen  her  as  a  child,  a  demoi- 
selle, a  bride,  a  widow.  I  have  carried  her  in  my 
arms,  and  danced  her  on  my  knee,  many  and  many 
a  time.  Ah!  that  surprises  you;  but  the  snow  has 
fallen  for  many  a  Winter  on  the  summit  of  Mount 
Cantal  since  that  time." 


all-saints'  eve.  219 

"Then  it  was  a  great  many  years  ago,  Father 
Jacques.     How  old  is  Madame  la  Comtesse!" 

"Twenty-five  years  at  the  most,  come  September," 
replied  Jacques.  "And  she's  so  fresh  and  beautiful 
that  she  does  not  yet  look  above  eighteen.  We 
always  used  to  call  her  the  little  Queen  Marguerite; 
and  sure,  if  a  young  girl  were  to  be  made  a  queen 
for  her  beauty,  Marguerite  would  have  been  crowned 
ten  years  ago.  Ah,  when  she  married  the  old 
Comte  de  Peyrelade  and  went  away  to  the  King's 
court,  there  was  not  a  soul  in  the  province  but 
missed  her.  It  was  a  blessing  even  to  look  upon 
her;  she  was  so  fair,  so  smiling,  so  gracious!  From 
everybody  you  heard,  'Well,  have  you  been  told 
the  news'?  The  little  Queen  Marguerite  is  gone!' 
And  all  the  men  sighed,  and  the  women  cried;  and 
it  was  a  sad  day  for  the  poor  folks.  Well,  nine 
years  have  gone  by  since  then.  She  has  at  last 
come  back  to  us;  the  old  Count  is  dead;  and  our 
little  Queen  will  live  with  us  once  more,  till  the  end 
of  her  days!" 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  boutilier,  who  had  hitherto 
been  silent. 

"Why  perhaps?"  said  Pere  Jacques,  knitting  his 
grey  brows,  "why  perhaps1?" 

"Is  not  Madame  young  and  beautiful?"  asked 
the  boutilier.  "Is  she  not  rich?  Why,  then,  should 
she  bury  herself  for  life  in  an  old  chateau?  What 
will  you  bet  that  she  does  not  go  back  to  court  be- 
fore twelve  months  are  over,  and  there  marry  some 
rich  and  handsome  lord?" 

"Hush!   Pierre,"  replied  Jacques,  in  a  moody 


220  ALL-SAINTS'  EVE. 

voice;   "I  tell  you  she  will  neither  marry  nor  leave 
us.     She  has  made  a  vow  to  that  effect." 

"Do  ladies  keep  those  vows'?"  asked  the  incre- 
dulous Pierre. 

"She  will.  Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  that 
passed  nine  years  ago  in  the  Chateau  de  Pradines, 
the  home  of  our  little  Queen  Marguerite  before  her 
marriage." 

The  two  lads  drew  nearer,  and  the  cowkeeper 
thus  began: — 

"The  handsomest  and  noblest  among  all  Mar- 
guerite's lovers  was  M.  le  Chevalier  de  Fontane. 
She  preferred  him;  and  though  he  was  but  a  younger 
son,  with  a  lieutenant's  commission,  the  old  Baron 
de  Pradines  consented  to  the  marriage  for  love  of 
his  daughter.  The  wedding-day  was  fixed.  Then 
news  came  that  Monsieur  George,  the  brother  of 
Mademoiselle  Marguerite,  was  to  have  leave  of  ab- 
sence from  his  regiment;  and  M.  le  Baron  deferred 
the  marriage  till  his  arrival — and  sorely  he  repented 
of  it  afterwards!  Monsieur  George  was  as  much 
disliked  as  his  father  and  sister  were  beloved  in  the 
province;  and  the  day  when  he  had  first  left  it  was 
a  day  of  rejoicing  amongst  us.  It  was  late  one 
evening  when  he  arrived  at  the  chateau,  bringing 
with  him  an  old  gentleman.  This  gentleman  was 
the  Count  de  Peyrelade.  As  soon  as  supper  was 
over,  Monsieur  George  went  to  his  father's  chamber, 
and  there  remained  with  him  for  a  long  time  in 
conversation.  No  one  ever  knew  what  passed  be- 
tween them;  but  the  night  was  far  spent  when  he 
came  out,  and  the  next  day  M.  le  Baron,  who  had 


ALL-SAINTS'  EVE.  221 

been  full  of  life  and  health  before  the  arrival  of  his 
son,  was  confined  to  his  bed  in  the  extremity  of  illness. 
A  priest  was  sent  for,  and  the  last  sacraments  were 
administered;  and  then  the  poor  old  gentleman 
summoned  all  the  household  to  take  his  farewell. 

"'Marguerite,'  said  he  to  his  daughter,  who  was 
crying  bitterly— 'Marguerite,  I  have  but  a  few  mo- 
ments to  live,  and  before  I  leave  thee  I  have  a 
prayer  to  address  to  thee.'  And  as  Mademoiselle 
kissed  his  hands  without  being  able  to  speak  a 
word,  he  added,  'My  daughter,  promise  me  to 
marry  M.  de  Peyrelade!' 

"At  these  words  the  poor  young  lady  gave  a 
great  cry,  and  fell  on  her  knees  at  the  foot  of  her 
father's  bed.  Then  the  Baron  turned  to  the  late 
Count: — 

"'Monsieur,'  said  he,  'I  know  my  daughter;  she 
will  obey  my  commands.  Promise  me  to  make  her 
happy.' 

"The  Count,  greatly  moved,  promised  to  devote 
his  life  to  her;  and  the  poor  dear  master  fell  back 
quite  dead! 

"It  was  exactly  twenty-four  hours  after  his  son's 
arrival  that  M.  le  Baron  breathed  his  last.  What  a 
terrible  night  it  was,  boys!  The  rain  and  snow  had 
never  ceased  falling  since  that  fatal  return.  M. 
le  Chevalier  de  Fontane,  who  knew  nothing  of  what 
had  passed,  came  riding  into  the  courtyard  about 
an  ho.ur  after  the  Baron  had  died.  I  ran  out  to 
him,  for  I  was  a  stableman  in  the  chateau,  and  I 
told  him  all  that  had  happened.  As  he  listened  to 
me,  he  became  as  pale  as  a  corpse,  and  I  saw  him 


222  ALL-SAINTS'  EVE. 

reel  in  his  saddle.  Then  he  plunged  his  spurs  into 
his  horse's  flanks,  and  fled  away  like  a  madman  into 
the  storm.  From  that  time  he  was  never  seen  or 
heard  of  again;  but,  as  he  took  the  road  to  the 
mountains,  it  was  supposed  that  he  fell,  with  his 
horse,  into  some  chasm,  and  was  buried  in  the 
snow.  Every  year,  on  the  anniversary  of  that  day, 
his  family  have  a  mass  said  for  the  repose  of  his 
soul." 

Here  the  cowkeeper  crossed  himself  devoutly, 
and  his  companions  followed  his  example. 

After  a  few  minutes'  silence,  "Well,  Pierre,"  he 
said,  "now  do  you  understand  why  Madame  la 
Comtesse  de  Peyrelade  has  retired  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five  to  live  in  a  ruinous  old  Chateau  of 
Auvergne,  and  why  she  should  never  marry  a  second 
timel" 

The  boutilier  was  so  concerned  that  he  had  not 
the  heart  to  say  a  word;  but  the  herdsman,  who  was 
excessively  curious,  returned  to  the  charge. 

"You  have  not  told  us,  Pere  Jacques,"  said 
he,  "why  the  Baron  desired  his  daughter  to  marry 
the  late  Count  instead  of  the  Chevalier  de  Fon- 
tanel 

"I  can  only  tell  you  the  reports,"  replied  Jacques; 
"for  nobody  knows  the  truth  of  it.  They  said  that 
M.  George  owed  more  money  to  the  Count  de  Pey- 
relade than  his  father  could  pay,  and  that  he  had 
sold  the  hand  of  his  sister  to  defray  the  debt. 
Every  one  knows  that  the  Count  was  very  much 
in  love  with  her,  and  that  she  had  refused  him 
several  times  already." 


all-saints'  eve.  223 

"Alas!"  exclaimed  Pierre,  "I  don't  wonder  at 
the  poor  lady's  determination.  It  is  not  her  old 
husband  that  she  grieves  for,  but  her  father  and  her 
lover;  is  it  not,  Pere  Jacques]" 

"Ay,"  replied  the  cowkeeper,  "and  it  is  not  only 
past  troubles  that  the  gentle  soul  has  to  bear,  but 
present  troubles  also!  'Tis  not  much  peace,  I  fear, 
that  she  will  find  in  Auvergne." 

"Why  so,  friend1?"  said  a  deep  voice  behind  the 
speakers,  and  a  man  of  about  thirty-eight  or  forty 
years  of  age,  with  a  pale  face,  a  stooping  figure, 
and  a  melancholy  expression  of  countenance  came 
suddenly  into  the  midst  of  them.  The  mountaineer 
and  the  ecclesiastic  were  oddly  combined  in  his 
attire;  for  with  the  cassock  and  band  he  wore 
leathern  gaiters,  a  powder-pouch  and  a  cartridge- 
box;  while  across  his  shoulders  was  slung  a  double- 
barrelled  musket.  A  couteau  de  chasse  was  thrust  in 
his  leathern  belt,  and  a  magnificent  mountain-dog 
walked  leisurely  at  his  side. 

"Good  day,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said  the  cow- 
keeper,  respectfully.  "Welcome  to  the  Buron.  Have 
you  had  good  sport?" 

"Not  very,  my  good  friend,  not  very,"  replied 
the  priest. 

"You  are  tired,  Monsieur  le  Cure;  come  and 
rest  awhile  in  the  Buron.  We  can  give  you  fresh 
milk  and  bread,  and  new  cheese.  Ah  dame!  you 
will  not  find  such  refreshments  here  as  at  the 
chateau,  but  they  are  heartily  at  your  service." 

"I  will  sit  here  with  you,  friends,  and  willingly 
accept  a  draught  of  milk,"   said  the  priest,  as  he 


224  ALL-SAINTS'  EVE. 

took  his  place  beside  them  on  the  grass;  "but  upon 
one  condition;  namely,  that  you  will  continue  the 
subject  of  your  conversation  as  freely  as  if  I  were 
not  amongst  you." 

Pere  Jacques  was  abashed  and  confounded.  He 
looked  uneasily  to  the  right,  and  then  to  the  left; 
and  at  last,  having  no  other  resource,  "Eh  bien!" 
he  exclaimed,  "I  will  e'en  speak  the  truth,  Monsieur 
le  Cure,  because  it  is  wicked  to  tell  a  lie,  and  be- 
cause you  are  a  holy  man  and  will  not  be  offended 
with  me.  We  were  talking  of  Madame  and  M. 
George,  the  present  Baron  de  Pradines.  He  is 
actually  living  here  in  the  chateau,  and  here  he  is 
going  to  remain— M.  George,  the  spendthrift  brother 
of  Madame,  to  whom,  through  your  intercession, 
Monsieur  le  Cure,  she  is  lately  reconciled." 

"Hush!  Jacques,"  said  the  priest,  gravely.  "M. 
de  Pradines  was  wild  in  his  youth;  but  he  has 
repented.  It  was  he  who  made  the  first  advances 
towards  a  reconciliation  with  Madame." 

"I  know  that,  M.  le  Cure,"  said  the  moun- 
taineer, "I  know  that;  but  the  Baron  is  poor,  and 
knows  how  to  look  after  his  own  interests.  He  is 
here  for  no  good,  and  no  good  will  come  of  his 
return.  It  is  certain  that  the  old  well  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  chateau,  which  was  dry  for  years,  has 
refilled  these  last  few  days;  and  you  know  that  to 
be  a  sure  sign  of  some  misfortune  to  the  family." 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  Cure  superstitiously,  "it  is 
true;  Jacques." 

And  he  grew  thoughtful. 

The    mountaineers    were    silent;    suddenly  the 


all-saints'  eve.  225 

priest's  dog  started  and  pricked  up  his  ears.  At 
the  same  moment  the  report  of  a  gun  echoed 
through  the  glen,  and  a  white  partridge,  such  as  is 
sometimes  to  be  seen  in  the  mountains  after  a 
severe  Winter,  fell  fluttering  at  the  feet  of  the  Cure. 
Then  followed  a  crashing  of  underwood  and  a 
sound  of  rapid  footsteps,  and  in  another  moment  a 
gentleman  appeared,  parting  the  bushes  and  escort- 
ing a  young  lady  who  held  the  train  of  her  hunting- 
habit  thrown  across  her  arm.  The  gentleman  was 
laughing  loudly,  but  the  lady  looked  pale  and  dis- 
tressed, and  running  towards  the  group  under  the 
chestnut-trees,  took  up  the  wounded  bird  and  kissed 
it  tenderly,  exclaiming: — 

"Ah,  M.  le  Cure,  you  would  not  have  killed 
the  pretty  creature  if  I  had  begged  its  life,  would 
you?" 

The  priest  coloured  crimson. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  falteringly,  "this  partridge 
is  wounded  in  the  wing,  but  is  not  dead.  Who 
shot  it?" 

The  young  lady  looked  reproachfully  at  the 
gentleman;  the  gentleman  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  laughed  again,  but  less  heartily  than  before. 

"Oh,  mea  culpa!"  he  said,  lightly.  "I  am  the 
culprit,  Monsieur  l'Abbe." 


The  Black  Forest.  1 5 


226  all-saints'  eve. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Storm. 

The  Baron  de  Pradines,  late  of  the  Royal  Mus- 
keteers and  now  captain  in  the  Auvergne  Dragoons, 
was  small  and  fair,  like  his  sister,  and  about  thirty- 
five  years  of  age.  He  looked,  however,  some  years 
older,  pale,  ennuye,  and  languid — as  might  be  ex- 
pected in  a  man  who  had  spent  a  dissipated  youth 
in  the  gayest  court  of  Europe. 

Madame  de  Peyrelade,  on  the  contrary,  was 
scarcely  changed  since  Jacques  had  last  seen  her. 
She  was  then  sixteen;  she  was  now  five-and-twenty; 
and,  save  in  a  more  melancholy  expression,  a 
sadder  smile,  and  a  bearing  more  dignified  and 
self-possessed,  the  good  herdsman  told  himself  that 
nine  years  had  left  no  trace  of  their  flight  over  the 
head  of  "la  belle  Marguerite"  The  Countess,  being 
still  in  mourning,  wore  a  riding-dress  of  grey  cloth 
ornamented  with  black  velvet,  with  a  hat  and  plume 
of  the  same  colours.  Thus  attired,  she  so  strongly 
resembled  the  portraits  of  her  namesake,  the  beauti- 
ful Marguerite  de  Navarre,  that  one  might  almost 
have  fancied  she  had  just  stepped  out  of  the  canvas 
upon  that  wild  precipice  amidst  a  group  of  still 
wilder  mountaineers,  such  as  Salvator  loved  to 
paint. 


all-saints'  eve.  227 

There  were  some  minutes  of  uneasy  silence. 
The  wondering  herdsmen  had  retreated  into  a  little 
knot;  the  captain  bit  his  glove,  and  glanced  at  his 
sister  under  his  eyelashes;  the  Countess  tapped  her 
little  foot  impatiently  upon  the  ground;  and  the 
Cure  of  St.  Saturnin,  with  an  awkward  assump- 
tion of  indifference,  bent  his  sallow  face  over  the 
wounded  partridge,  which  was  nestled  within  the 
folds  of  his  black  serge  cassock. 

"Mordieu!  sister,"  exclaimed  the  Baron,  with 
his  unpleasant  laugh,  "are  we  all  struck  dumb  at 
this  woeful  catastrophe  —  this  woodland  tragedy? 
Being  the  culprit,  I  am,  however,  ready  to  throw 
myself  at  your  feet.  You  prayed  to  me  for  mercy 
just  now,  for  a  white  partridge,  and  I  denied  it.  I 
now  entreat  it  for  myself,  having  offended  you." 

The  Countess,  smiling  somewhat  sadly,  held  out 
her  hand,  which  the  dragoon  kissed  with  an  air  of 
profound  respect. 

"George,"  she  said,  "I  am  foolishly  supersti- 
tious about  these  white  partridges.  A  person  who 
was  very  dear  to  me  gave  me  once  upon  a  time  a 
white  partridge.  One  day  it  escaped.  Was  it  an 
evil  omen?  I  know  not;  but  I  never  saw  that  per- 
son again." 

The  young  man  frowned  impatiently,  and,  chang- 
ing the  conversation,  exclaimed,  with  a  disdainful 
movement  of  the  head: — 

"We  have  the  honour,  Madame,  to  be  the  ob- 
ject of  your  herdsmen's  curiosity  all  this  time.  The 
fellows,  I  should  imagine,  would  be  more  fitly  oc- 
cupied among  their  cows.     Or  is  it  the  custom  on 

15* 


228  all-saints'  eve. 

your  estates,  my  amiable  sister,  that  these  people 
should  pass  their  time  in  idleness.  A  word  to  the 
steward  would  not,  methinks,  be  altogether  out  of 
place  on  this  subject." 

The  herdsmen  shrank  back  at  these  words,  which, 
though  uttered  in  the  purest  French  of  Versailles, 
were  sufficiently  intelligible  to  their  ears;  but  the 
Countess,  with  a  kindly  smile,  and  a  quick  glance 
towards  the  priest,  undertook  their  defence. 

It  was  holiday,  she  said,  doubtless  in  consequence 
of  his  own  arrival  in  Auvergne;  and  besides,  did 
he  not  see  that  M.  the  good  Cure  has  been  deliver- 
ing to  them  some  pious  exhortation,  as  was  his 
wont1? 

The  priest  blushed  and  bowed,  and  made  an 
inward  resolution  of  penance  that  same  night,  for 
participation  in  that  innocent  falsehood.  It  was  his 
first  sin  against  truth. 

At  this  moment  the  lady,  looking  towards  the 
little  group  of  men,  recognized  Pere  Jacques. 

"If  I  do  not  mistake,"  she  exclaimed,  making 
use  of  the  mountain  patois,  "I  see  one  of  my  oldest 
friends  yonder — a  herdsman  who  used  to  be  in  my 
father's  service!     Pere  Jacques,  is  it  really  you?" 

The  herdsman  stepped  forward  eagerly. 

"Ah,  Mam'selle  Marguerite,"  he  stammered,  "is 
it  possible  that — that  you  remember  me?" 

And  he  scarcely  dared  to  touch  with  his  lips 
the  gloved  hand  that  his  mistress  gave  him  to  kiss. 

"George,"  said  the  Countess,  "do  you  not  re- 
member Pere  Jacques?" 

"Ah! — yes,"  replied  the  Baron,   carelessly;  ad- 


all-saints'  eve.  229 

ding,  half  aloud,  "my  dear  sister,  do  not  let  us  stay 
here  talking  with  these  boors." 

"Nay,  brother,  this  place  is  not  Versailles,  Dieu 
merci!  Let  me  talk  a  little  with  my  old  friend — 
he  reminds  me  of  the  days  when  I  was  so  happy." 

"And  so  poor,"  muttered  the  dragoon  between 
his  teeth,  as  he  turned  away  and  began  talking 
chasse  with  the  Cure  of  St.  Saturnin. 

"And  now  tell  me,  Pere  Jacques,"  said  the 
young  Countess,  seating  herself  at  the  foot  of  a 
chestnut-tree,  "why  have  you  left  the  chateau  de 
Pradines?" 

"You  were  there  no  longer,  Madame,"  said  the 
mountaineer,  standing  before  her  in  a  respectful  at- 
titude. 

"But  I  was  not  here  either." 

"True;  but  Madame  might,  some  day,  grow 
weary  of  the  court;  and  I  knew  that  sooner  or  later 
she  would  come  to  Auvergne.  Besides,  here  I 
worked  on  Madame's  property,  and  ate  of  her 
bread." 

"Poor  Pere  Jacques!  you  also  think  sometimes 
Of  the  old  days  at  Pradines?" 

"Sometimes! — it  seems  as  if  it  were  but  yester- 
day, Mam'selle,  that  I  carried  you  in  my  arms,  and 
ran  beside  you  when  you  rode  Fifine,  the  black 
pony,  and  heard  your  laugh  in  the  court-yard  and 
your  foot  in  the  garden!  Ah,  Madame,  those  were 
the  happy  times,  when  the  hunt  came  round,  and 
Monsieur  your  father,   and  yourself,   and  Monsieur 

the  Chevalier  de  Fon .     Oh,  pardon,  Madame! 

pardon! — what  have  I  said!" 


230  all-saints'  eve. 

And  the  herdsman  stopped,  terrified  and  re- 
morseful; for  at  that  name  the  lady  had  turned 
deathly  white. 

"Hush,  my  good  friend,"  she  said,  falteringly. 
"It  is  nothing."  Then,  after  a  brief  pause  and  a 
rapid  glance  towards  her  brother  and  the  priest, 
"Come  nearer,  Jacques,"  she  said,  in  a  subdued 
tone.     "One  word — Was  the  body  ever  discovered?" 

"No,  Madame." 

She  shaded  her  face  with  her  hand,  and  so  re- 
mained for  some  moments  without  speaking.  She 
then  resumed  in  a  low  voice: — 

"A  terrible  death,  Jacques!  He  must  have 
fallen  down  some  precipice." 

"Alas!  Madame,  it  may  have  been  so." 

"Do  you  remember  the  last  day  that  we  all 
hunted  together  at  Pradines1?  The  anniversary  of 
that  day  comes  round  again  to-morrow.  Poor 
Eugene!  .  .  .  Take  my  purse,  Pere  Jacques,  and 
share  its  contents  with  your  companions — but  re- 
serve a  louis  to  purchase  some  masses  for  the  re- 
pose of  his  soul.  Say  that  they  are  for  your  friend 
and  benefactor — for  he  was  always  good  to  you. 
He  has  often  spoken  of  you  to  me.  Will  you 
promise  me  this,  Pere  Jacques?" 

The  herdsman  was  yet  assuring  her  of  his 
obedience,  when  the  priest  and  her  brother  came 
forward  and  interrupted  them. 

"My  dear  sister,"  said  M.  de  Pradines,  "the  sun 
is  fast  going  down,  and  we  have  but  another  hour 
of   daylight.      Our    friend   here,    M.   le   Cure,    ap- 


ALL-SAINTS    EVE.  23 1 

prehends  a  storm.     It  were  best  we   rejoined   our 
huntsmen,  and  began  to  return." 

"A  storm,  mon  frlre"  said  Madame  de  Peyre- 
lade  with  surprise.  "Impossible!  The  sky  is  per- 
fectly clear.  Besides,  it  is  so  delightful  under  these 
old  trees — I  should  like  to  remain  a  short  time 
longer." 

"It  might  be  imprudent,  Madame  la  Comtesse," 
said  the  Cure  timidly,  as  he  cast  a  hurried  glance 
along  the  horizon.  "Do  you  not  see  those  light 
vapours  about  the  summit  of  Mont  Cantal,  and  that 
low  bank  of  clouds  behind  the  forest1?  I  greatly 
mistake  if  we  have  not  a  heavy  storm  before  an 
hour,  and  I  should  counsel  you  to  take  the  road 
for  the  chateau  without  delay." 

"Come  hither,  Pere  Jacques,"  said  the  lady, 
smiling,  "you  used  to  be  my  oracle  at  Pradines. 
Will  there  be  a  storm  to-night1?" 

The  old  mountaineer  raised  his  head,  and 
snuffed  the  breeze  like  a  stag-hound. 

"M.  le  Cure  is  right,"  he  said.  "The  night- 
wind  is  rising,  and  there  is  a  tempest  close  at 
hand.  See  the  cows,  how  they  are  coming  up  the 
valley  for  shelter  in  the  stalls!  They  know  what 
this  wind  says." 

"To  horse!  to  horse!"  cried  the  dragoon,  as  he 
raised  his  silver  horn  and  blew  a  prolonged  blast. 
"We  have  no  time  to  lose;  the  roads  are  long  and 
difficult." 

A  clear  blast  from  the  valley  instantly  echoed 
to  his  summons,  and  the  next  moment  a  group  of 
men  and  dogs  were  seen  hurrying  up  the  slope. 


232  all-saints'  eve. 

"Farewell,  my  friends,"  said  the  Countess;  "fare- 
well, Pere  Jacques!  M.  le  Cure,  you  will  return 
and  dine  with  us?" 

"Madame,  I  thank  you;  but — but  this  is  a  fast- 
day  with  me." 

"Well,  to-morrow.  You  will  come  to-morrow? 
I  will  sing  you  some  of  those  old  songs  you  are  so 
fond  of!    Say  yes,  M.  le  Cure." 

"Madame  la  Comtesse  will  graciously  excuse 
me.  I  must  catechise  the  children  of  the  district 
to-morrow." 

"But  my  brother  returns  to-morrow  to  his  regi- 
ment— you  will  come  to  bid  him  farewell?" 

"Monsieur  de  Pradines  has  already  accepted  my 
good  wishes  and  compliments." 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,  then,  M.  le  Cure?" 

"Madame,  I  will  endeavour." 

"But  you  promise  nothing.  Ah,  monsieur,  for 
some  time  past  you  have  been  very  sparing  of  your 
visits.  Have  I  offended  you  that  you  will  no  longer 
honour  me  with  your  company?" 

"Offended  me! — oh  Madame!" 

These  words  were  uttered  with  an  accent  and 
an  expression  so  peculiar  that  the  young  lady  looked 
up  in  surprise,  and  saw  that  the  priest's  eyes  were 
full  of  tears. 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent;  then,  affecting  an 
air  of  gaiety,  "Adieu,  M.  le  Cure,"  she  cried  as  she 
turned  away;  "be  more  neighbourly  in  future." 

Then,  seeing  that  he  still  held  the  wounded 
partridge,  "Alas!  that  poor  bird,"  she  exclaimed;  "it 
is  trembling  still!" 


all-saints'  eve.  233 

"Ah,  Madame  la  Comtesse,"  said  Pere  Jacques. 
"I'll  engage  that,  if  M.  le  Cure  opened  his  hand, 
that  cunning  partridge  would  be  a  mile  away  in 
half  a  minute!" 

"Do  you  think  it  will  live?  Well,  Pere  Jacques, 
take  care  of  it  for  my  sake.  Feed  it  for  two  or 
three  days,  and  then  give  the  poor  bird  its  liberty." 

"Sister!"  said  the  dragoon,  in  a  tone  of  im- 
patience, "the  storm  is  coming  on." 

"Adieu  all!"  were  the  last  words  of  the  Countess, 
as  she  took  her  brother's  arm,  and  went  down  the 
rough  pathway  leading  to  the  valley. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  they  had  mounted  their 
horses  and  set  off  at  a  quick  gallop  towards  the 
turreted  chateau  that  peeped  above  the  trees  three 
miles  away.  The  priest  and  the  herdsmen  stood 
watching  them  in  silence  till  they  disappeared  round 
an  angle  of  rock,  and  listened  till  the  faint  echo  of 
the  horns  died  away  in  the  distance. 

"Dear  little  Queen  Marguerite!"  exclaimed  Pere 
Jacques,  when  all  was  silent.  "Dear  little  Queen 
Marguerite,  how  good  and  kind  she  is!" 

"And  how  beautiful!"  murmured  the  priest. 

Then  taking  a  little  leathern  purse  from  his 
breast,  he  slipped  an  icu  into  the  mountaineer's 
hand. 

"Good  Jacques,"  said  he,  "I  will  take  care  of 
the  partridge;  but  say  nothing  to  the  Countess  when 
you  see  her  again.  Good  evening,  friends,  and 
thanks  for  your  hospitality!" 

And  the  Cur£  threw  his  gun  across  his  shoulder, 


234  all-saints'  eve. 

whistled  to  his  dog,  and  turned  towards  the  path- 
way. 

At  the  same  moment  a  gathering  peal  of  thunder 
rolled  over  the  distant  mountains;  and  the  summit 
of  Mont  Cantal,  visible  a  few  moments  since,  was 
covered  with  thick  black  clouds. 

"Monsieur  le  Cure!"  cried  the  herdsmen,  with 
one  voice,  "come  back!  the  storm  is  beginning. 
Come  back,  and  take  shelter  in  the  Buron!" 

"The  storm!"  replied  the  priest,  raising  his  eyes 
to  the  heavens.  "Thanks,  my  friends,  thanks!  God 
sends  the  storm.     Pray  to  Him!" 

While  he  spoke ,  there  came  a  flash  of  lightning 
that  seemed  to  rend  open  the  heavens.  The  herds- 
men crossed  themselves  devoutly.  But  the  Cure  of 
St.  Saturnin  had  disappeared  already  down  the 
pathway. 

The  storm  came  on  more  swiftly  than  they  had 
expected.  All  that  evening  the  mountains,  which 
here  extend  for  more  than  three  leagues  in  one  un- 
broken chain,  echoed  back  the  thunder.  Sturdy 
oaks  and  mountain  pines  that  had  weathered  every 
storm  for  fifty  years,  were  torn  up  from  their  firm 
rootage.  Huge  fragments  of  rock,  white  and 
tempest-scarred  from  long  exposure  on  bleak 
mountain-heights,  were  shivered  by  the  lightning, 
and  fell  like  fierce  avalanches  into  the  depths 
below. 

All  was  darkness.  The  rain  came  down  in  piti- 
less floods;  the  thunder  never  seemed  to  cease,  for 
before  the  doubling  echoes  had  half  died  away, 
fresh  peals  renewed  and  mocked  them.    Every  flash 


all-saints'  eve.  235 

of  lightning  revealed  for  an  instant  the  desolate 
landscape,  the  rocking  trees,  the  swollen  torrents 
rushing  in  floods  to  the  valley.  It  was  scarcely  like 
lightning,  but  seemed  as  if  the  whole  sky  opened 
and  blinded  the  world  with  fire. 

Meanwhile  the  Countess  and  her  brother  ar- 
rived safely  at  the  Chateau  de  Peyrelade;  and, 
having  changed  their  wet  garments,  were  sitting  be- 
fore a  blazing  log-fire,  in  the  big  salon  overlooking 
the  valley.  Both  were  silent.  Their  reconciliation 
had  not  been,  as  yet,  of  long  duration.  Marguerite 
could  not  forget  her  wrongs,  and  the  Baron  felt 
embarrassed  in  her  presence.  It  is  true  that  he  en- 
deavoured to  conceal  his  embarrassment  under  an 
excess  of  courteous  respect;  but  his  smiles  looked 
false,  and  his  attentions  always  appeared,  to  his 
sister  at  least,  to  wear  an  air  of  mockery.  And  so 
they  sat  in  the  great  salon  and  listened  to  the 
storm. 

It  was  a  gloomy  place  at  all  times,  but  gloomier 
now  than  ever,  with  the  winds  howling  round  it  and 
the  rain  dashing  blindly  against  the  windows.  Great 
oaken  panellings  and  frowning  ancestral  portraits 
adorned  the  walls,  with  here  and  there  a  stand  of 
arms,  a  rusty  helmet  and  sword,  or  a  tattered  flag 
that  shivered  when  the  storm  swept  by.  Old 
cabinets  inlaid  with  tortoiseshell  and  tarnished  or- 
molu were  placed  between  the  heavy  crimson  dra- 
peries that  hung  before  the  windows;  a  long  oaken 
table  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room;  and  above 
the  fire-place  the  ghastly  skull  and  antlers  of  a  royal 


236  all-saints'  eve. 

deer  seemed  to  nod  spectrally  in  the  flickering  light 
of  the  wood-fire. 

At  length  the  Baron  broke  silence: — 

"What  are  you  thinking  about  so  intently,  Ma- 
dame1?" said  he. 

"I  am  wondering,"  replied  the  lady,  "if  any  hap- 
less travellers  are  out  in  this  heavy  storm.  If  so, 
heaven  have  mercy  on  them!" 

"Ah,  truly,"  replied  the  brother,  carelessly.  "By 
the  way,  that  poor  devil  of  a  Cure,  who  would  not 
come  to  dinner,  I  wonder  if  he  got  safely  back  to 
his  den  at  Saturnin.  Do  you  know,  Marguerite,  'tis 
my  belief  that  the  holy  man  is  smitten  with  your 
beautiful  eyes!" 

'■'■Monsieur  mon  fre're!"  exclaimed  the  lady  in- 
dignantly, "if  you  forget  your  own  position  and 
mine,  I  must  beg  you  at  least  to  remember  the  pro- 
fession of  the  holy  man  whom  you  calumniate.  He 
is  ill  repaid  for  his  goodness  towards  you  by 
language  such  as  this!  But  for  his  intercessions  you 
would  not  now  be  my  guest  at  Peyrelade." 

"I  beg  a  thousand  pardons,  my  dear  sister," 
said  the  Baron  lightly.  "Pray  do  not  attach  such 
importance  to  a  mere  jest.  Ce  cher  Cure!  he  has 
not  a  better  friend  in  the  world  than  myself.  By- 
the-by,  has  he  happened  to  mention  to  you  the 
dilapidated  state  of  the  chapel  at  Pradines1?  It 
should  be  put  into  proper  repair,  and  would  cost  a 
mere  trifle — three  hundred  louis — which  sum,  how- 
ever, I  really  cannot  at  present  command.  Now,  my 
dear  sister,  you  are  so  kind .  .  .  ." 

"George,"   said   the   Countess,   gravely,  "M.  le 


ALL- SAINTS'  EVE.  237 

Cure  has  not  spoken  to  me  of  anything  of  the  kind. 
I  will  not,  however,  refuse  this  sum  to  you;  but  do 
not  deceive  me.  Shall  you  really  put  the  money  to 
this  use1?     Have  you  quite  given  up  play?" 

"Au  diable  la  morale!"  muttered  the  dragoon 
between  his  teeth.  Then  he  added,  aloud,  "If  I  ask 
it  for  any  other  use,  I  wish  I  may  be — " 

"No  more,  M.  le  Baron,"  interrupted  the  lady. 
"To-morrow  morning  you  shall  have  the  three  hun- 
dred louis." 

As  she  spoke  these  last  words,  a  loud  knocking 
was  heard  at  the  outer  gates  of  the  chateau. 

"Bravo!"  cried  the  Baron,  delighted  at  this  in- 
terruption to  the  conversation.  "Here  is  a  visitor. 
Yet,  no;  for  what  visitor  in  his  senses  would  come 
out  on  such  a  night?  It  must  be  a  message  from 
the  king." 

It  was  neither,  for  in  a  few  moments  a  servant 
entered,  saying  that  an  accident  had  occurred  to  a 
traveller  a  short  distance  from  the  chateau.  His 
horse,  taking  fright  at  the  fall  of  a  large  fragment 
of  rock,  had  become  unmanageable,  and  had  flung 
himself  and  his  rider  over  a  steep  bank.  Happily, 
some  bushes  had  served  to  break  the  force  of  their 
fall,  or  they  must  inevitably  have  been  much  in- 
jured. As  it  was,  however,  the  gentleman  was  a 
good  deal  hurt,  and  his  servant  entreated  shelter 
within  the  walls  of  the  chateau. 

The  Countess  desired  that  the  traveller  should 
be  brought  into  the  salon,  and  a  horseman  be  de- 
spatched to  the  nearest  town  for  a  surgeon. 


238  all-saints'  eve. 

"Ah,  brother,"  said  she,  "I  had  a  presentiment 
of  evil  this  night!  Alas,  the  unfortunate  gentleman! 
Throw  on  more  logs,  I  beseech  you,  and  draw 
this  couch  nearer  to  the  fire,  that  we  may  lay  him 
upon  it." 

The  door  was  again  opened,  and  the  stranger's 
groom,  assisted  by  the  people  of  the  chateau,  brought 
in  the  wounded  traveller,  whom  they  laid  upon  the 
couch  beside  the  fire.  He  was  a  young  man  of 
twenty-eight  or  thirty,  slightly  made,  and  dressed  in 
a  foreign  military  uniform. 

The  Countess,  who  had  advanced  to  render 
some  assistance,  suddenly  retreated  and  became 
very  pale. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Marguerite?  What  ails 
you?"  cried  her  brother. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  leaned  heavily  upon  his 
arm.  At  this  moment  the  traveller,  who  began  to 
recover  when  placed  near  the  warmth,  raised  his 
head  feebly,  and  looked  around  him.  All  at  once 
his  vague  and  wandering  glance  rested  on  Mar- 
guerite. Instantly  a  look  of  recognition  flashed  into 
his  eyes.  Then  he  raised  himself  by  a  convulsive 
effort,  and  fell  back  again,  insensible  as  before. 

The  Baron  de  Pradines,  who  had  attentively  ob- 
served this  scene,  turned  to  the  stranger's  groom, 
and  asked  him  in  a  low  voice  the  name  of  his 
master. 

He  could  not  repress  a  start  when  the  man  re- 
plied— "My  master,  Monsieur,  is  called  the  Cheva- 
lier de  Fontane." 


all-saints'  eve.  239 

"Ah!"  said  the  ex-captain  of  Royal  Musketeers, 
as  he  rent  one  of  his  lace  ruffles  into  tiny  shreds 
that  fell  upon  the  floor,  "I  will  not  leave  to-mor- 
row ! " 


240  all-saints'  eve. 


CHAPTER   III. 

The  Parsonage. 

Andre  Bernard,  Cure  of  the  parish  of  St.  Sa- 
turnin,  was  sitting  in  the  little  parlour  which  served 
him  for  breakfast-room,  dining-room,  and  study. 
He  had  just  said  mass  in  the  tiny  chapel  adjoining 
his  garden;  and  now  the  peasants  were  dispersing 
towards  their  various  homes,  or  clustering  in  little 
knots  beneath  the  road-side  trees,  discussing  the 
weather,  the  harvest,  or  the  arrival  of  their  lady  the 
Countess  in  her  chateau  at  Auvergne. 

The  pastor  had  hastened  back  to  his  cottage, 
and  was  already  seated  in  his  great  leathern  arm- 
chair, busily  cleaning  his  gun,  which  was  laid  across 
his  knees;  but  at  the  same  time,  in  order  that  mind 
and  body  should  be  equally  employed,  he  was 
devoutly  reading  an  office  from  the  breviary  which 
lay  open  on  a  stool  beside  him.  His  dog  lay  at  his 
feet,  sleeping.  His  modest  array  of  books  filled  a 
couple  of  shelves  behind  his  chair;  the  open  window 
looked  upon  the  mountain-country  beyond,  and  ad- 
mitted a  sweet  breath  from  the  clustering  Provence 
roses  that  hung  like  a  frame-work  round  the  case- 
ment. The  floor  was  sanded.  A  few  coloured 
prints  of  the  Virgin  and  various  saints  upon  the 
walls;  a  small  black  crucifix  above  the  fire-place;  a 


ALL-SAINTS'  EVE.  24I 

clock,  and  an  old  oak  press  behind  the  door,  make 
up  the  list  of  furniture  in  the  Cure's  salon  de  com- 
pagnie. 

Opposite  to  her  master,  seated  in  a  second  high- 
backed  leathern  chair,  the  very  brother  to  his  own, 
an  old  woman  who  played  the  important  part  of 
housekeeper  in  the  parsonage,  sat  silently  spinning 
flax  and  superintending  the  progress  of  a  meagre 
pot  age  that  was  "simmering"  on  the  fire.  Not  a 
sound  was  heard  in  the  chamber  save  the  monotonous 
rattle  of  the  spindle,  and  the  heavy  breathing  of  the 
dog;  save  now  and  then  when  the  priest  turned  a 
leaf  of  his  breviary.  The  old  woman  cast  frequent 
glances  at  her  master  through  her  large  tortoise- 
shell  spectacles,  and  seemed  several  times  about  to 
address  him,  but  as  often  checked  herself,  in  respect 
to  his  holy  employment. 

At  last  she  could  keep  silence  no  longer. 

"Monsieur  le  Cure,"  she  exclaimed,  in  that  shrill 
tone  which  age  and  long  familiarity  appears  to 
authorise  in  old  servants,  "Monsieur  le  Cure,  will 
you  never  have  finished  reading  your  breviary1?" 

The  Abbe,  who  did  not  seem  to  hear  her  in  the 
least,  went  on  mechanically  rubbing  his  gun,  and 
murmuring  words  of  the  Latin  office. 

The  old  lady  repeated  her  question — this  time 
with  more  effect;  for  Andre  Bernard  slowly  raised 
his  head,  fixed  his  eyes  vacantly  upon  her,  and 
resting  the  butt-end  of  his  musket  on  the  floor, 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  reverently  closed 
the  book. 

"Jeannette,"   said  he,  gravely,   "here  is  a  screw 

The  Black  Forest.  *6 


242  all-saints'  eve. 

in  the  gun-barrel  that  will  not  hold  any  longer; 
fetch  me  the  box  of  nails  and  screws,  that  I  may  fit 
it  with  a  fresh  one." 

Having  said  these  words,  he  opened  the  bre- 
viary in  a  fresh  place,  and  resumed  his  orisons. 

"Here,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said  the  good  house- 
keeper, somewhat  testily,  bringing  out  a  little  box 
of  gunsmith's  tools  from  a  corner  cupboard,  "here 
is  what  you  asked  for;  but  I  think  there  must  be 
some  spell  on  your  musket  if  it  wants  mending  with 
the  little  use  you  make  of  it!  There  is  no  danger 
of  your  ever  wanting  a  new  one,  I'm  certain.  Then 
your  powder — it  never  diminishes!  I  have  not  filled 
your  pouch  for  the  last  three  weeks.  Truly  we 
should  starve  but  for  the  eggs  and  vegetables;  and 
the  saints  know  that  our  larder  has  been  empty  for 
a  long  time!" 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  poor  Jeannette1?"  said 
the  priest,  kindly,  as  he  again  looked  up  from  his 
breviary.  "I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  but  the  game 
has  fled  from  me  lately." 

"Say  rather,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  that  it  is  you 
who  fly  from  the  game !  The  other  day  M.  Gaspard, 
the  schoolmaster,  told  me  that  he  met  you  on  the 
mountains,  and  that  a  great  hare  ran  past  you  at  a 
yard's  distance,  and  you  only  looked  at  it  as  if  it 
had  been  a  Christian!" 

"The  schoolmaster  must  have  mistaken,  Jean- 
nette." 

"Oh,  no,  Monsieur  le  Cure;  Gaspard's  eyes  are 
excellent!  Then  your  breviary — it  is  frightful  to  see 
you  reading  from  morning  till  night,  from  night  till 


all-saints'  eve.  243 

morning,  instead  of  being  out  in  the  fresh  air,  and 
bringing  back  a  good  store  of  game  for  ourselves 
and  our  neighbours.  How  shall  we  live1?  If  you 
will  not  kill,  you  must  buy — and  your  money  all 
goes  in  charity.  Ah,  Monsieur,  you  must  indeed  be 
more  industrious  with  your  gun!" 

"Well,  Jeannette,  I  promise  to  reform,"  said  the 
priest,  smiling;  "I  will  go  out  this  afternoon,  and 
try  to  be  more  successful." 

"Indeed  I  should  advise  it,  Monsieur  le  Cure; 
and  above  all  do  not  come  back,  as  you  did  yester- 
day, wet  to  the  skin,  and  bringing  what,  forsooth1? — 
nothing  but  a  miserable  partridge!" 

"Ah!  but  I  do  not  mean  to  make  a  supper 
of  that  partridge,  my  good  Jeannette:  I  mean  to 
keep  it." 

"To  keep  it — holy  Virgin!  Keep  a  partridge! 
A  live  partridge!  Why,  Monsieur,  it  would  devour 
our  corn,  and  cost  as  much  as  twenty  canaries.  If 
you  do  these  things,  Monsieur,  instead  of  giving 
alms  you  will  have  to  beg." 

"Be  calm,  Jeannette,  my  good  Jeannette;  we 
shall  never  be  ruined  by  a  partridge.  Besides,  it  is 
a  rare  bird.     Bring  it  here  to  me." 

"Rare,  Monsieur  le  Cure!  I  have  seen  them 
over  and  over  again  after  a  severe  winter." 

"Well,  Jeannette,  for  my  sake  take  care  of  this 
poor  little  bird,  for  I  value  it  greatly.  Bring  it  here; 
I  wish  to  feed  it  myself." 

The  good  housekeeper  looked  uneasily  at  her 
master  through    her  great    spectacles,    and    began 

16* 


244  All-saints'  eve. 

glancing  from  right  to  left  in  evident  tribulation. 
She  did  not  offer,  however,  to  rise  from  her  seat. 

"Are  you  dreaming,  Jeannette?"  said  the  priest, 
with  much  surprise;  "did  you  hear  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Monsieur  le  Cure.  The — the  par- 
tridge. .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"Well — that  is,  Monsieur  le  Cur6,  you  will  be  a 
little  vexed,  I  fear — perhaps — but  the  partridge — " 

"Will  you  speak,  Jeannette?" 

"There — Monsieur  le  Cure — there  was  nothing 
in  the  house  for  supper,  Monsieur  le  Cure — and — 
and  so  I — " 

"Wretch!  have  you  killed  it?" 

And  the  priest  sprang  from  his  seat,  pale  with 
anger,  and  advanced  towards  the  terrified  house- 
keeper, who  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  clasped  her 
hands  in  a  speechless  appeal  for  mercy. 

Even  the  dog  ran  trembling  under  the  table, 
and  uttered  a  low  deprecatory  howl. 

Recalled  to  himself  by  the  panic  of  his  house- 
hold, Andre  Bernard  threw  himself  back  into  his 
chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  Could 
one  have  removed  those  fingers,  they  would  have 
seen  large  tears  upon  his  sunken  cheeks. 

At  this  moment  the  door  was  opened  quickly, 
and  a  man  entered  the  room.  The  priest  rose  pre- 
cipitately from  his  chair,  for  in  the  intruder  he  saw 
no  less  a  person  than  the  Baron  de  Pradines. 

"Excuse  my  intrusion,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said 
the  gentleman,  whose  features  wore  an  expression 
of  peculiar  anxiety.     "I  wish  to  speak  with  you  in 


all-saints'  eve.  245 

private."  And  he  glanced  towards  the  still-kneeling 
Jeannette.  "You  see  I  have  not  yet  returned  to  my 
regiment.  I  have,  for  the  present,  changed  my  plans. 
Pray  who  is  this  woman?" 

"She  is  my  housekeeper,  Monsieur  le  Baron: 
she — she  was  in  prayer  when  you  entered,"  said 
Andre  Bernard,  telling  another  falsehood  to  account 
for  the  strange  position  of  Jeannette. 

Poor  Abbe!  he  blushed  and  faltered,  and  men- 
tally vowed  another  penance  for  his  sin. 

"Jeannette,"  he  said,  "you  may  go.  I  will  hear 
the  rest  of  your  confession  in  the  evening." 

The  Baron  smiled  furtively  as  the  old  lady  rose 
and  left  the  room — he  had,  unfortunately  heard  the 
latter  part  of  the  pretended  confession. 

"Now,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said  he,  "I  have 
come  to  consult  you  on  a  very  grave  and  important 
subject.  You  are  renowned  in  all  this  district  for 
your  piety  and  learning;  tell  me,  do  you  consider 
vows  to  be  sacred  and  indissoluble?" 

The  priest  was  surprised  to  hear  these  words 
from  the  lips  of  a  gentleman  whose  reputation  for 
light  morals  and  free  views  was  so  extensively 
known;  but  after  a  few  moments'  consideration — 

"There  are  several  kinds  of  vows,  Monsieur  le 
Baron,"  he  replied;  "there  are  vows  by  which  we 
bind  ourselves  to  the  service  of  God,  and  those 
never  must  be  broken.  Then  there  are  vows  rashly 
uttered  in  times  of  mental  excitement,  by  which 
people  engage  themselves  to  perform  acts  of  sacri- 
fice or  penance." 

"Ah,  it  is  of  such  that  I  would  speak!"  said  the 


246  all-saints'  eve. 

captain.  "What  of  those?  Think  well,  M.  le 
Cure,  before  you  answer  me." 

"It  is  doubtless  a  great  sin,"  replied  the  priest, 
"not  to  fulfil  such  vows;  but  still  I  do  not  think 
that  the  good  God  in  His  mercy  would  desire  to 
chastise  eternally  an  erring  creature  who  had  thus 
offended  him;  especially  if  the  vow  were  made  un- 
der the  strong  influence  of  human  passion." 

The  dragoon  bit  his  lips  angrily. 

"I  am  no  churchman,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said 
he  roughly,  "but  I  cannot  agree  with  you  there. 
Do  you  forget  that  God  commanded  Abraham  to 
sacrifice  Isaac  his  son1?" 

"Yes,  but  I  also  remember  that  He  sent  an 
angel  to  arrest  the  father's  hand." 

"Possibly,"  said  the  Baron,  with  a  bitter  laugh; 
"but  I  do  not  believe  anything  of  the  kind  myself!" 

Andre  Bernard  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  in 
pious  horror. 

After  a  moment,  George  de  Pradines  drew  his 
chair  beside  the  priest,  and  continued: — 

"And  yet,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  I  have  something 
to  tell  you  that  I  think  will  change  your  opinion  in 
the  matter  of  vows." 

"Proceed,"  murmured  the  priest,  who  was  al- 
ready troubled  with  a  presentiment  of  evil. 

"Since  we  parted  last  night,  strange  things  have 
happened  at  the  chateau.  A  wounded  traveller  has 
arrived — a  traveller  whom  we  believed  long  since 
dead.  He  lives.  Eh  bieti,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  can 
you  guess  who  he  is?" 

"Monsieur  le  Baron — I — I  know  not,"  murmured 


all-saints'  eve.  247 

the  priest;   and  for  the  third   time  Andre  Bernard 
uttered  an  untruth. 

"I  am  really  surprised,  Monsieur  le  Cure  at 
your  want  of  penetration.  Well,  it  is  the  Chevalier 
de  Fontane." 

At  this  name  the  priest  turned  pale  and  trembled. 
He  looked  silently  upon  the  ground. 

"Listen,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  cried  the  young 
man  determinedly;  "dissimulation  avails  nothing. 
My  sister  is  a  rich  widow,  and  I  shall  be  ruined  if 
she  breaks  her  solemn  vow  never  to  marry  a  second 
time.  I  have  already  procured  large  sums  of  money 
upon  the  reversion  of  her  estate,  when  she  either 
dies  or  adopts  a  conventual  life.  I  am  not  a  man 
who  could  pass  his  days  agreeably  at  the  galleys. 
My  future  depends  solely  on  her  vow,  and  she 
must  not  marry  a  second  time." 

"But,  Monsieur  le  Baron,  it  seems  to  me  that 
you  leap  at  too  hasty  a  conclusion.  Your  fears 
may  be  without  foundation.  Madame  may  not  wish 
to  be  absolved  from  her  vow — Monsieur  le  Chevalier 
may  no  longer  be  desirous " 

"Bah!"  interrupted  the  Baron,  savagely,  "what 
eke  is  he  here  for1?  His  servant  has  told  me  all. 
He  has  been  for  eight  or  nine  years  serving  in  the 
Prussian  army;  during  all  that  time  he  kept  a  strict 
watch  upon  France.  At  length  he  heard  of  the 
death  of  the  late  Count  de  Peyrelade:  he  obtained 
leave  of  absence  when  a  decent  time  had  elapsed. 
Loving  and  hoping  more  ardently  than  ever,  he  set 
off  for  Auvergne;  he  met  with  this  accident  at  the 


248  ALL-SAINTS'  EVE. 

very  gates  of  the  chateau,  (would  that  it  had  killed 
him!);  and  there  he  is!" 

The  priest  was  silent. 

"You  see,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  there  is  but  one 
way  to  prevent  this  marriage.  My  sister  is  pious, 
and  rests  every  faith  in  your  sanctity.  She  will  sigh 
— perhaps  she  will  weep;  but  is  it  for  a  priest,  a 
minister  of  the  church,  to  be  swayed  by  trifles  of 
this  kind1?  No!  it  is  for  the  sake  of  religion  and 
heaven,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  that  you  will  be  firm 
and  faithful  to  your  trust.  It  is  nothing  to  you  if 
my  fortunes  fail  or  prosper — if  a  young  woman 
weeps  or  smiles — you  must  fulfil  the  disinterested 
duties  of  your  sacred  calling— you  must  maintain 
the  sanctity  of  vows— you  must  rescue  my  sister 
from  the  abyss  of  crime  into  which  she  is  fall- 
ing!" 

"It  is  quite  true,"  said  the  poor  Abbe,  tremu- 
lously. 

"Then  you  will  render  your  utmost  assistance?" 
said  the  Baron  eagerly. 

"Yes,"  murmured  the  priest. 

"Monsieur  le  Cure,  you  are  a  holy  man,  and 
you  have  my  esteem." 

The  Abbe  blushed  and  accepted  the  proffered 
hand  of  the  dragoon.  At  that  moment  some  one 
knocked  at  the  door. 

"Who  is  there?"  said  the  Abbe,  starting  like  a 
guilty  man. 

"It  is  I,"  replied  old  Jeannette.  "A  servant 
from  the  chateau  presents  the  compliments  of  Ma- 


all-saints'  eve.  249 

dame  la  Comtesse,  and  requests  M.  le  Cure  to  pay 
her  a  visit  directly  on  urgent  business." 

"You  see,"  said  the  Baron,  "my  sister  has  her 
scruples  already.  Go  quickly,  my  dear  Abbe,  and 
do  not  forget  that  the  interests  of  the  church  are  in 
your  hands.     It  is  a  holy  mission!" 

"A  holy  mission!"  repeated  the  priest,  as  he 
turned  to  leave  the  room.  "A  holy  mission!  O 
mon  Dieu,   mon  Dieu!   do  not  forsake  thy  servant!" 


250  all-saints'  eve. 


CHAPTER   IV. 
The  Vow. 

Andre  Bernard  arrived  at  the  Chateau  de 
Peyrelade  like  a  man  walking  in  his  sleep.  He  found 
that  he  had  been  ushered  into  the  Countess's 
boudoir,  and  that  he  was  sitting  there  awaiting  her 
arrival,  without  having  the  faintest  remembrance  of 
the  forest  through  which  he  must  have  come,  the 
gates  through  which  he  must  have  passed,  or  the 
staircase  which  he  must  have  ascended.  Truly 
the  Abbe  Bernard  had  been  asleep,  and  his  sleep 
had  lasted  for  two  months.  Now  he  was  slowly 
awaking,  and  it  was  the  stern  reality  of  his  position 
that  so  bewildered  him. 

The  charm  which  spread  itself  round  the  young 
and  beautiful  Countess  had  not  been  unfelt  by  this 
lonely  priest,  whose  calm  and  passionless  existence 
had  hitherto  been  passed  in  the  society  of  an  aged 
housekeeper,  or  of  a  simple  and  untaught  peasantry. 
Seeing  nothing  for  long  years  beyond  the  narrow 
limits  of  his  own  little  world — his  parsonage,  his 
chapel,  or  his  parishioners;  familiar  only  with  the 
savage  grandeur  of  the  mountains,  or  the  cool  still- 
nesses of  the  valleys,  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that 
the  presence  of  an  accomplished  and  graceful 
woman  should  blind  the  reason  of  a  simple  Cure? 


all-saints'  eve.  251 

Even  at  this  moment,  the  perfumed  atmosphere 
of  the  boudoir  intoxicated  him.  Exotics  of  exqui- 
site shape  and  colour,  with  long  drooping  leaves 
and  heavy  white  and  purple  blossoms,  were  piled 
against  the  windows;  a  Persian  carpet,  gorgeous 
with  eastern  dyes — 

"  Orange  and  azure  deep'ning  into  gold," 

was  spread  beneath  his  feet.  Yonder  was  her  lute; 
here  were  some  of  her  favourite  books;  all  around, 
draperies  of  pink  silk  fell  from  the  ceiling,  and  cur- 
tained round  the  boudoir  like  a  tent. 

The  Abbe  laid  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and 
groaned  aloud. 

When  he  again  looked  up,  the  Countess  was 
standing  beside  him,  with  an  unwonted  trouble  in 
her  face — a  trouble  that  might  have  been  pity,  or 
anxiety,  or  shame,  or  a  mingling  of  all  three. 

She  began  to  speak;  she  hesitated;  her  voice 
trembled,  and  her  words  were  indistinct. 

Andre  Bernard  was  suddenly  aroused  from  his 
dream.    The  lover,  not  the  priest,  was  awakened. 

He  rose  abruptly. 

"Madame  la  Comtesse,"  he  said,  sternly,  "spare 
yourself  useless  and  sinful  words.  I  know  why  you 
have  sent  for  me  to-day;  and  I  tell  you  that  the  All- 
Powerful  who  has  received  your  vow,  commands  you 
by  my  lips  to  observe  its  sanctity." 

The  young  woman  cast  a  terrified  glance  at  the 
gloomy  countenance  of  the  priest,  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands. 


2  $2  ALL- SAINTS'  EVE. 

"Then,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  the  All-Powerful  bids 
me  die!" 

"No,  you  will  not  die,"  replied  the  Abbe,  in  the 
same  profound  and  steady  voice — "you  will  not  die. 
Heaven,  which  gave  you  strength  to  bear  the  first 
separation,  will  enable  you  to  sustain  the  second." 

"Alas!  alas!"  cried  the  Countess,  in  a  piercing 
tone,  "I  had  thought  to  be  so  happy!" 

The  priest  dug  his  nails  into  the  palms  of  his 
clenched  hands.  A  convulsive  tremor  shook  him 
from  head  to  foot,  and  he  gasped  for  breath.  Before 
he  had  seen  her,  he  had  prepared  a  host  of  holy 
consolations  for  the  wounded  heart;  but  now  that 
he  had  it  before  him,  trembling  and  bleeding  like 
the  stricken  bird  which  had  nestled  in  his  breast  the 
night  before,  he  had  not  a  word  of  comfort  or  pity 
to  soothe  her  anguish.  Every  tear  that  forced  its 
way  between  her  slender  fingers,  fell  like  a  burning 
coal  upon  the  conscience  of  the  good  Cure\  In  this 
cruel  perplexity  he  murmured  a  brief  prayer  for 
strength  and  guidance. 

"Alas,  Madame,"  he  faltered,  "do  you  then  love 
him  so  deeply1?" 

"I  have  loved  him  all  my  life!"  she  cried  de- 
spairingly. 

The  priest  was  silent.  He  threw  open  the  win- 
dow, and  suffered  the  evening  breeze  to  cool  his 
brow  and  lift  his  long  black  hair. 

Then  he  returned. 

"Marguerite,"  he  said,  in  a  broken  voice,  "be  it 
as  you  will.  In  the  name  of  the  living  God,  I  release 
you  from  your  vow;   and  if  in  this  a  wrong  should 


ALL-SAINTS'  EVE.  253 

be  committed,  henceforth  I  take  that  sin  upon  my 
soul." 

Powerfully  moved,  glowing  with  excitement, 
elevated  for  the  moment  by  a  rapture  of  generosity 
— feeling,  perhaps,  as  the  martyrs  of  old,  when  they 
went  triumphant  to  their  deaths,  and  sealed  their 
faith  with  blood — so  Andre  Bernard  stood  in  the 
glory  of  the  setting  sun,  rapt,  illumined,  glorified. 
And  Marguerite  de  Peyrelade,  dimly  conscious  of 
the  dark  struggle  that  had  passed  through  his  soul 
and  the  divine  victory  which  he  had  achieved,  fell 
on  her  knees  as  to  a  deity,  calling  upon  him  as  her 
saviour,  her  benefactor! 

"Not  unto  me,  Marguerite,  but  unto  Him,"  said 
Andre,  releasing  his  hand  gently  from  her  lips,  and 
pointing  upwards.  "It  is  not  I  who  give  you  happi- 
ness. C'est  Dieu  qui  Venvoie.  Priez  Dieuf"  And 
he  pointed  to  a  crucifix  against  the  wall. 

The  young  woman  bowed  before  the  sacred 
emblem  in  speechless  gratitude,  and  when  she  rose 
from  her  knees  the  priest  was  gone. 

In  an  hour  from  this  time,  two  persons  were  sit- 
ting together  on  the  terrace,  upon  which  opened  the 
Countess's  boudoir.  One  was  a  young  man,  pale, 
but  with  a  light  of  joy  in  his  countenance  that  re- 
placed the  bloom  of  health.  He  was  seated  in  an 
easy  chair,  and  wrapped  in  a  large  military  cloak. 
The  other  was  a  woman,  young  and  beautiful,  who 
sat  on  a  low  stool  at  his  feet,  with  her  cheek  rest- 
ing on  his  hand.  They  spoke  at  intervals  in  low 
caressing  tones,  and  seemed  calmly,  speechlessly 
happy. 


254  all-saints'  eve. 

Far  around  them  extended  range  beyond  range 
of  purple  mountains,  quiet  valleys,  and  long,  dark 
masses  of  foliage  tinted  with  all  the  hues  of  autumn 
and  golden  in  the  sun.  No  traces  of  the  late  storm 
were  visible,  save  that  here  and  there  a  tree  lay  pros- 
trate, and  one  or  two  brawling  streams  that  but 
yesterday  were  tiny  rivulets,  dashed  foaming  through 
the  valleys. 

Presently  the  red  disc  of  the  sun  disappeared 
slowly  behind  the  tree-tops;  the  gathered  clouds 
faded  into  grey;  the  mountain  summits  grew  darker, 
and  their  outline  more  minutely  distinct;  a  mist 
came  over  the  valley;  and  a  star  gleamed  out  above. 

The  lady  wrapped  his  cloak  more  closely  round 
her  lover,  to  protect  him  from  the  evening  air,  and 
then  resumed  her  lowly  seat.  And  so  they  sat,  look- 
ing at  the  stars  and  into  one  another's  eyes,  listen- 
ing to  the  distant  sheep-bell,  or  the  lowing  of  the 
herds  as  they  were  driven  home  to  their  stalls. 

"Methinks,  sweet  one,"  said  the  gentleman,  as 
he  looked  down  at  the  dear  head  laid  against  his 
hand — "methinks,  that  in  an  hour  such  as  this,  with 
thee  beside  me,  I  should  love  to  die!" 

But  the  lady  kissed  his  hand,  and  then  his  brow, 
and  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  were  filled  only 
with  life  and  love. 

That  night  the  Baron  de  Pradines  set  off  to  join 
his  regiment. 


all-saints'  eve.  255 


CHAPTER   V. 

The  Supper  of  All-Saints'  Eve. 

Two  months  quickly  passed  away  in  the  Chateau 
de  Peyrelade,  during  which  the  Chevalier  de  Fontane 
had  recovered  from  his  accident,  and  the  Countess 
from  her  melancholy.  Preparations  had  been  making 
for  the  last  three  weeks  for  the  celebration  of  their 
marriage.  Workmen  from  Paris  had  been  decorating 
the  rooms;  a  dignitary  of  the  church  was  invited  to 
perform  the  ceremony;  and  all  the  nobility  for  miles 
around  were  invited  to  the  fete.  Even  the  Baron 
de  Pradines,  mortally  offended  as  he  was  by  the 
whole  business,  had  at  last  consented  to  be  friends, 
and  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  the  wedding.  In 
a  word,  the  contract  was  to  be  signed  on  the  even- 
ing of  All-Saints'  Day,  and  the  marriage  was  to  take 
place  the  following  morning. 

At  length  All-Saints'  Day  arrived,  a  grey,  cold, 
snowing  morning.  Autumn  is  wintry  enough,  some- 
times, in  the  Haute  Auvergne.  The  earth  looks 
bare  and  hard,  the  chestnut-trees  are  all  stripped  of 
their  thick  foliage,  and  the  snow  has  encroached 
half-way  down  the  sides  of  the  mountains.  The 
raw  north-east  wind  rushes  howling  through  the 
passes  and  along  the  valley,  carrying  with  it  at 
sunrise    and    sunset    drifting    sleet  and  fine  snow, 


256  all-saints'  eve. 

Soon  it  will  come  down  thick  and  fast,  and  bury 
all  the  bushes  in  its  white  mantle.  Now  the  herds- 
men's huts  are  empty,  and  the  cows  are  transferred 
to  the  warm  stabling  of  the  chateau. 

Marguerite  de  Peyrelade,  sitting  in  her  salon, 
surrounded  by  a  gay  and  noble  company,  is  ill  at 
ease,  thinking  of  the  dark  night,  of  the  falling  snow, 
of  the  howling  wolves,  and  of  the  Chevalier  de 
Fontane,  who  has  been  out  since  morning  and  is 
momentarily  expected  at  the  chateau.  He  has  been 
to  the  notary's  in  the  neighbouring  town  respecting 
the  marriage-settlements,  and  has  promised  to  return 
in  time  for  the  great  supper  of  All-Saints'  Eve. 
The  Baron  de  Pradines  is  also  to  arrive  to-night  to 
be  present  at  the  signing  of  the  contract;  and  the 
young  Countess,  whose  heart  is  overflowing  with 
love  and  charity,  is  even  a  little  concerned  for  the 
safety  of  her  ungracious  brother. 

Parisian  workmen  have  effected  wondrous  changes 
in  the  great  dark  salon  of  the  Chateau  de  Peyrelade. 
Who  would  recognize,  in  the  brilliantly  lighted  re- 
ception-room blazing  with  chandeliers  and  mirrors, 
furnished  with  exquisite  taste,  garlanded  with  ever- 
greens, and  crowded  with  all  the  rank  and  pride 
of  Auvergne,  the  gloomy,  cavernous  hall  with  the 
rusty  armour  and  ghostly  antlers  of  two  months 
since? 

Uniforms  and  glittering  orders  were  abundant. 
There  was  the  Marquis  de  Florae,  gorgeous  with 
the  ribbon  and  decoration  of  St.  John  of  Jerusalem; 
the  Count  de  Saint  Flour,  in  his  uniform  as  Colonel 
of  the  St.  Flour  cavalry;  the  Commander  de  Fontane, 


all-saints'  eve.  257 

cousin  of  the  bridegroom,  in  a  rich  court  dress  re- 
dolent of  Versailles;  the  Lieutenant  of  Police;  the 
Seigneur  de  Rochevert,  who  owned  the  adjoining 
estate;  several  officers,  a  cabinet  minister,  some 
diplomatic  gentlemen,  and  one  or  two  younger  sons 
from  the  colleges  and  the  Polytechnique.  The 
gentlemen  were  gathered  in  little  knots,  playing  at 
ombre  and  piquet:  the  ladies  were  assembled  round 
la  belle  reine  Marguerite. 

But  the  queen  of  the  fete  was  anxious  and  ab- 
stracted, and  her  thoughts  wandered  away  to  the 
Chevalier  de  Fontane  and  his  lonely  journey.  The 
time-piece  in  the  ante-chamber  struck  nine.  No 
one  heard  it  but  Marguerite .  Neither  laughter,  nor 
music ,  nor  the  sound  of  many  voices  could  drown 
that  silvery  reverberation,  however,  for  her  listening 
ears.  Her  impatience  became  intolerable,  for  the 
Chevalier  should  have  returned  full  three  hours  be- 
fore. At  last  she  rose  and  slipped  quietly  out  of 
the  room,  through  the  ante-chamber,  along  the  cor- 
ridor, and  so  into  her  little  quiet  boudoir,  far  away 
from  the  jarring  merriment  of  her  guests.  There 
she  wrapped  herself  in  a  great  cloak  lined  with 
sables,  opened  the  window,  and  stepped  out  on  the 
terrace. 

It  was  a  gloomy  night.  The  moon  shone  fit- 
fully through  masses  of  black  cloud.  There  was 
snow  upon  the  terrace;  snow  in  the  garden  beneath; 
snow  in  the  valley;  snow  on  the  distant  mountains. 
The  silence  was  profound;  not  a  sound  was  audible 
from  the  noisy  salon;  not  a  sound  from  the  distant 
forest.      All  around  lay  deep  shadow  and  spectral 

The  Black  Forest.  1 7 


258  all-Saints'  eve, 

moonlight;  and  upon  all  the  scene  a  stillness  as  of 
death.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  silence, 
Marguerite  de  Peyrelade  heard  the  sharp,  clear 
report  of  a  distant  musket  shot.  She  listened, 
trembling  and  terrified.  It  was  instantly  followed 
by  another. 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu!"  murmured  the  young  woman, 
leaning  for  support  against  the  window-frame;  "what 
Christian  hunts  at  such  an  hour  as  this?  Heaven 
protect  Eugene!" 

And  now  another  sound  almost  as  deadly — a 
prolonged  howling  of  wolves  startled  in  their  lair — 
came  up  from  the  valley.  Then  the  moon  be- 
came obscured  by  heavy  clouds,  and  snow  began 
to  fall. 

The  Countess  re-entered  her  boudoir,  closed 
the  windows  hastily,  and  was  glad  once  more  to 
find  herself  in  the  noisy  salon. 

"Our  hostess  looks  very  pale,"  whispered  the 
Marquis  de  I-lorac  to  his  partner  at  ombre.  "She 
is  anxious,  I  suppose,  for  the  arrival  of  M.  de 
Fontane." 

"Very  likely,"  said  his  companion — "I  play  the 
king." 

"Is  Madame  unwell?"  asked  a  young  Colonel 
of  Hussars,  going  up  to  her  with  a  profound  saluta- 
tion.    "Madame  appears  much  agitated." 

"I  have  heard  something  very  strange,"  stam- 
mered the  Countess,  as  she  sank  into  a  chair:  "the 
report  of  a  gun!" 


all-saints'  eve.  259 

"Indeed,  Madame!"  said  the  Lieutenant  of 
Police.  "That  is  somewhat  strange  at  this  hour  of 
the  evening!" 

"And  it  was  followed  by — by  a  second,"  said 
the  Countess. 

"Stranger  still!"  muttered  the  Lieutenant. 

"Pooh!  nothing  but  the  fall  of  some  fragment 
of  rock  up  in  the  mountains  yonder,"  said  the 
Commander  de  Fontane,  with  a  gay  laugh.  "The 
days  of  banditti  are  past.  Do  not  be  alarmed, 
chlre  petite  cousine;  Eugene  is  safe  enough,  and 
knows  how  to  take  care  of  himself." 

"He  should  have  been  here  some  hours  ago, 
Monsieur,"  replied  the  lady. 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  salon  was 
thrown  open,  and  the  Majordomo  announced  that 
supper  was  served. 

"But  the  two  principal  guests  are  not  yet  here," 
cried  the  Marquis  de  Florae.  "Monsieur  le  Chevalier 
de  Fontane,  and  Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Pradines!" 

"Three  are  wanting,  M.  le  Marquis,"  said  the 
Countess,  forcing  a  smile.  "Our  good  Abbe  Bernard, 
the  Cure  of  St.  Saturnin,  has  not  yet  arrived;  and 
how  could  we  take  our  places  at  table  without  his 
presence  on  All-Saints'  Eve?  We  must  wait  awhile 
for  the  three  missing  guests.  I  am  surprised  at 
the  absence  of  M.  le  Cure,  for  he  has  the  shortest 
road  to  travel;  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
league." 

"A  quarter  of  a  league,    did    you   say?"    ex- 

17* 


260  all-saints'  EVE. 

claimed  the  Commander:  "is  that  all?  Why,  with 
a  good  horse  it  would  not  take  more  than  five 
minutes  to  go  and  return.  If  you  command  it, 
Madame,  I  will  fly  to  M.  le  Cure,  and  bring  him  to 
your  feet  dead  or  alive!" 

"Monsieur,  I  thank  you,"  said  the  Countess, 
smiling;  "but  here  is  our  worthy  Abbe!" 

At  the  same  instant  the  Cure  of  St.  Saturnin 
was  ushered  into  the  salon.  He  looked  strangely 
white  and  wan;  his  teeth  chattered;  his  hands  were 
damp  and  cold. 

"At  last,  Monsieur  le  Cur£!"  said  the  Countess, 
as  she  advanced  to  meet  him. 

"At  last,  Monsieur  le  Cure!"  repeated  several 
voices. 

"Five  minutes  later,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  and  I 
protest  that  Madame's  chef  de  cuisine  would  have 
committed  suicide  for  grief  at  the  ruin  of  the 
ragotits,  and  you  would  have  had  murder  on  your 
conscience!"  exclaimed  the  Commander. 

"Murder!"  echoed  Andre  Bernard  in  a  hollow 
voice,  staring  round  him  upon  the  company — "who 
speaks  here  of  murder1?" 

"For  shame,  Monsieur  le  Commandeur!  you 
alarm  our  good  Abbe,"  said  Madame  de  Peyrelade. 
"Come  to  the  fire,  Monsieur  le  Cure;  you  are  trem- 
bling from  cold." 

"The  supper  is  served,"  said  the  Majordomo 
for  the  second  time,  with  an  appealing  look  towards 
his  mistress, 


ALL-SAINTS'  EVE.  26  I 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  will  wait  no  longer 
for  Monsieur  de  Fontane  or  my  brother,"  said  the 
Countess,  rising.  "The  former  will  doubtless  be 
here  before  supper  is  over;  and  the  Baron  de  Pra- 
dines  is  possibly  detained  at  court,  and  may  not 
arrive  till  to-morrow.  We  will  defer  supper  no 
longer.     Your  arm,  Monsieur  de  Florae." 

The  supper  was  laid  out  in  the  great  hall  of 
the  chateau.  Wine  and  jests  went  round.  Even 
the  Countess  recovered  her  spirits,  and  joined  in 
the  gaiety  of  her  guests. 

"Remove  those  two  covers,"  said  she.  "We 
will  tell  these  gentlemen,  if  they  arrive,  that  they 
shall  have  no  supper  by  way  of  penance." 

"No,  no,"  exclaimed  the  Commander;  "I  protest 
against  the  sentence!  They  will  be  here  soon,  and 
deserve  pity  rather  than  reproof.  Who  knows1?  Per- 
haps my  cousin  and  the  Baron  have  agreed  to  sur- 
prise us  at  the  supper-table,  and  will  both  be  in  the 
midst  of  us  in  a  few  minutes." 

"Both!"  ejaculated  the  priest,  casting  a  terrified 
glance  at  the  vacant  chairs. 

"And  why  not,  Monsieur  le  Cure?  I  remember, 
when  I  was  some  twelve  years  younger,  being  in- 
vited to  sup  with  a  party  of  friends  at  ten  leagues' 
distance.  It  was  a  pouring  night,  but  there  was  a 
pretty  girl  in  question,  and  so  I  rode  through  the 
rain,  and  arrived  just  at  the  right  time,  but  wet  to 
the  skin.  These  gentlemen  would  either  of  them 
undertake  a  similar  expedition,  and  I  will  answer  for 
it  they  will  both  be  here   before   supper  is  over. 


262  all-saints'  eve. 

Come,  I  bet  a  hundred  crowns!     Who  will  take  it? 
Will  you,  Monsieur  le  Cure?" 

"I?    Heaven  forbid!"  cried  the  priest. 

"Well,  you  will  not  refuse  to  drink  their 
healths?"  said  the  Commander,  as  he  filled  the 
priest's  glass  and  his  own.  "The  health  of  Mes- 
sieurs le  Baron  de  Pradines  and  le  Chevalier  de 
Fontanel" 

"Thanks  cousin,  for  the  honour!"  cried  a  voice 
from  the  farther  end  of  the  hall.  "When  I  am  a 
little  thawed,  I  shall  be  happy  to  return  the  compli- 
ment!" 

And  the  Chevalier  de  Fontane,  flushed  from  rid- 
ing, and  radiant  with  happiness,  came  hastening  up 
to  kiss  the  hand  of  his  betrothed. 

"Mon  dieu,  Monsieur  de  Fontane,  what  has  hap- 
pened?" cried  the  lady  beside  whom  he  took  his 
seat;  "your  neckcloth  and  ruffles  are  covered  with 
blood!" 

"A  mere  trifle,  Madame  de  Rochevert,"  laughed 
the  young  officer,  holding  up  his  hand,  round  which 
a  handkerchief  was  bound;  "a  tussle  with  a  wolf, 
who  would  fain  have  supped  off  of  your  humble 
servant,  instead  of  suffering  him  to  occupy  this  chair 
by  your  side — voila  tout!" 

"How  horrible!"  exclaimed  several  ladies. 

Madame  de  Peyrelade  turned  pale,  and  murmured 
a  prayer  of  thanks  to  Heaven. 

Healths  went  round  again.  Everyone  drank  to 
the  Chevalier,  and  congratulated  him  upon  his  vie- 


all-saints'  eve.  263 

tory.   Then  the  conversation  turned  upon  the  Baron 
de  Pradines. 

"It  is  now  too  late  to  hope  for  his  arrival,"  said 
Marguerite.  "I  trust  he  has  met  with  no  wolves  on 
the  road." 

"Let  us  drink  to  him,"  said  the  Commander, "and 
perhaps,  like  my  cousin  Eugene,  he  may  come  upon 
us  at  the  very  moment.  The  health  of  M.  le  Baron 
de  Pradines!" 

"The  health  of  M.  le  Baron  de  Pradines!"  cried 
all  the  voices. 

"I  denounce  M.  l'Abbe  of  high  treason,"  ex- 
claimed a  lady.  "He  never  opened  his  lips,  and  put 
down  his  glass  untasted!" 

The  Cure  was  dumb  with  consternation. 

"For  shame,  M.  le  Cure!"  cried  the  merry-makers. 
"We  can  have  no  abstinence  to-night.  Do  penance, 
and  drink  the  health  alone." 

"To  the  health  of  M.  le  Baron  de  Pradines!" 
said  the  priest  in  a  hollow  voice,  and  emptied  his 
glass  at  a  draught. 

"Bravo!  bravo,  M.  le  Cure!"  cried  the  gentlemen, 
rattling  their  glasses,  by  way  of  applause.  "Nothing 
like  the  amende  honorable!" 

At  this  moment,  a  succession  of  thundering 
blows  upon  the  outer  gate  startled  the  revellers  into 
a  momentary  silence. 

"The  Baron  de  Pradines,  for  a  hundred  crowns!" 
cried  the  Marquis  de  Florae. 

Andre  Bernard  turned  paler  than  before. 


264  all-saints'  eve. 

"Who  comes1?"  asked  the  Countess.  "Go,  Pierre," 
she  said  to  a  servant  behind  her  chair,  "go  and  see 
if  it  be  M.  de  Pradines." 

In  a  moment  the  valet  returned ,  pale  and 
speechless.  A  confused  murmur  was  heard  with- 
out. 

"Who  is  there1?"  asked  the  Countess. 

"Doubtless,"  said  the  Cure,  in  a  hoarse  wander- 
ing voice,  "doubtless  it  is  one  of  the  guests  who  has 
arrived  in  time  for  the  dessert." 

At  these  words  everyone  rose  from  table,  struck 
by  a  fatal  presentiment. 

The  door  opened,  and  Pere  Jacques  appeared, 
followed  by  his  two  assistants.  They  carried  the 
body  of  a  man  wrapped  in  a  military  cloak.  The 
Countess  recognising  the  body  of  her  brother,  ut- 
tered a  piercing  cry  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 
Silent  and  terror-stricken,  the  company  stood  look- 
ing at  each  other.  The  Cure  clasped  his  hands  as 
if  in  prayer;  the  Lieutenant  of  Police  went  over  and 
examined  the  body. 

"This  is  not  the  work  of  a  robber,"  said  he, 
"for  the  jewels  and  purse  of  the  Baron  are  un- 
touched. He  has  been  shot  in  the  temple.  Does 
any  person  here  present  know  anything  of  this 
murder1?" 

No  one  spoke. 

"Where  was  the  body  found?" 

"We  discovered  it  near  the  foot  of  Mont  Cantal, 
with  M.  le  Baron's  horse  standing  beside  it,  M.  le 
Lieutenant,"  replied  P6re  Jacques, 


all-saints'  eve.  265 

"Does  any  person  know  of  any  enemy  whom  M. 
le  Baron  may  have  had  in  this  neighbourhood?" 
pursued  the  officer  of  police. 

"Alas,  Monsieur,"  replied  the  cow-keeper,  bluntly, 
"the  Baron  de  Pradines  had  very  few  friends  in 
these  parts,  but  no  enemy,  I  think,  who  would  serve 
him  a  turn  like  this." 

"Does  any  person  know  if  M.  le  Baron  had  any 
difference  or  quarrel  lately  with  any  person?" 

There  was  a  profound  silence;  but  more  than 
one  glance  was  directed  towards  the  Chevalier  de 
Fontane. 

The  Lieutenant  of  Police  repeated  the  inquiry. 

"I — I  know  of  only  one  person,  Monsieur,"  stam- 
mered the  bouiillier,  "and — and " 

He  was  silent:  a  stern  look  from  Pere  Jacques 
arrested  the  words  upon  his  lips,  and  he  said  no 
more. 

"And  that  person?" 

"Pardon,  M.  le  Lieutenant,  but — but  I  will  not 
say." 

"Answer,  I  command  you,"  said  the  officer,  "in 
the  name  of  the  King." 

"It  is — M.  le  Chevalier  de  Fontane!"  gasped  the 
terrified  peasant. 

"You  hear  this,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Lieutenant. 
"What  answer  do  you  make?  Have  you  had  a 
quarrel  with  the  late  Baron?" 

"I   acknowledge  —  that    is — I "  faltered   the 

young  man  in  evident  confusion  and  dismay. 

"Enough,  Monsieur.  Appearances,  I  regret  to 
say,  are  against  you.    You  arrive  late;  your  dress  is 


266  all-saints'  eve. 

disordered;  your  apparel  is  blood-stained,  and  your 
hand  is  wounded.  I  am  grieved  beyond  measure; 
but  I  am  compelled  to  arrest  you  on  the  charge  of 
murder." 


all-saints'  eve.  267 


CHAPTER   VI. 

The  Lieutenant  of  Police. 

When  misfortune  falls  upon  a  house  in  the 
midst  of  feasting  and  revelry,  the  guests,  of  late  so 
friendly  and  familiar,  shun  the  presence  of  their 
entertainers  as  if  there  were  contagion  in  the  very 
air.  It  is  as  if  the  plague  had  broken  out  within 
the  walls,  and  as  if  the  black  flag  were  alone  needed 
to  complete  the  resemblance. 

So  it  was  in  the  Chateau  de  Peyrelade  after  the 
arrival  of  the  body  of  the  Baron  de  Pradines.  Some 
few  of  the  guests  who  lived  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood, mounted  their  horses  and  hastened  home 
that  very  night.  Others,  not  caring  for  the  night- 
journey  through  a  mountain-country  in  fast-falling 
snow,  waited  courageously  for  the  dawn.  All,  how- 
ever, rose  so  early  next  morning  and  contrived  so 
well  that,  by  the  time  the  sun  poured  his  full  radi- 
ance into  the  disordered  apartments,  not  a  soul  re- 
mained in  the  chateau  beyond  its  usual  inhabitants. 
The  kitchens  that  had  been  so  busy  with  cooks  and 
servants,  the  salon  that  had  been  thronged  with  visi- 
tors, the  supper-room  that  had  of  late  been  the 
scene  of  festivity  and  mirth — all  were  deserted;  and 
on  the  supper-table  lay  the  body  of  the  murdered 
man,  covered  with  a  sheet. 


268  all-saints'  eve. 

We  have  said  that  all  the  guests  were  gone;  but 
this  was  not  strictly  true,  for  two  remained  at  the 
chateau — the  Commandeur  de  Fontane,  cousin  to 
the  prisoner,  and  the  Lieutenant  of  Police.  The 
former  had  stayed  to  stand  by  his  kinsman;  the 
latter,  in  the  prosecution  of  his  duties.  Determined 
to  investigate  the  matter  to  the  utmost,  he  had  al- 
ready despatched  two  of  his  servants  to  the  town  of 
St.  Flour,  to  command  the  instant  attendance  of  a 
detachment  of  gendarmerie.  Father  Jacques,  and 
the  unfortunate  boutillier,  who  had  (through  sheer 
terror  and  excitement)  betrayed  the  hostility  existing 
between  the  Baron  and  the  Chevalier,  were  placed 
with  loaded  muskets  before  the  door  of  the  wretched 
bridegroom's  chamber.  The  public  crier  was  sent 
round  the  parish  of  St.  Saturnin  to  proclaim  rewards 
for  information  tending  to  throw  light  upon  the 
murder  of  the  high  and  puissant  George,  Baron  de 
Pradines,  and,  during  life,  Captain  of  the  Auvergne 
Light  Dragoons. 

In  short,  Monsieur  the  Lieutenant  of  Police  was 
an  active  and  intelligent  officer,  and  before  noon 
on  the  day  following  the  event,  had  done  all  that 
was  in  the  power  of  man  towards  discovering  the 
particulars  of  the  dreadful  deed,  and  securing  the 
person  of  the  supposed  offender. 

Having  discharged  these  duties,  the  worthy 
Lieutenant  found  himself  altogether  unemployed. 
Nothing  more  could  be  done  till  the  arrival  of  the 
gendarmerie  from  St.  Flour;  so  he  resolved  to  go 
into  the  supper-room  and  examine  the  body  of  the 
Baron  de  Pradines, 


all-saints'  eve.  269 

The  Countess  de  Peyrelade,  veiled  and  in  deep 
mourning,  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  table, 
absorbed  in  prayer.  He  signified  by  a  gesture  that 
he  had  no  intention  of  disturbing  her  orisons;  and 
as  she  once  more  resumed  her  attitude  of  devotion, 
he  turned  down  the  sheet,  and  attentively  contem- 
plated the  body.  M.  le  Lieutenant  was  a  man 
eminently  skilful  in  his  profession,  and  he  was  not 
ignorant  of  the  importance  of  slight  indications.  He 
knew  how  frequently  the  weightiest  discoveries  lie 
concealed  beneath  a  veil  of  the  commonest  circum- 
stances. 

George  de  Pradines  was  yet  dressed  in  the  clothes 
which  he  had  worn  at  the  moment  of  his  fall.  His 
features,  even  in  death,  preserved  their  habitually 
proud  and  sarcastic  expression;  nay,  it  even  seemed 
as  if  the  haughty  lip  were  curved  more  mockingly 
than  ever.  The  bullet-hole  on  his  temple  proved  that 
he  was  face  to  face  with  the  murderer  when  at- 
tacked. This  circumstance  precluded,  at  least,  all 
suspicion  of  a  cowardly  ambush.  What  if  he  could 
be  shown  to  have  fallen  in  a  duel! 

The  Lieutenant  of  Police  took  up  the  musket 
lying  beside  the  body.  It  was  loaded.  He  then  ex- 
amined the  pistols  which  were  in  the  belt  around 
the  dead  man's  waist.  They  were  loaded  likewise. 
Strange!  Had  he  not  even  defended  himself,  though 
facing  his  murderer's  weapon?  And  then  had  not 
Madame  de  Peyrelade,  returning  to  the  salon  pale 
and  terrified,  told  the  assembled  company  in  evident 
terror  that  she  had  distinctly  heard  two  reports  of  a 
gun  in  the  direction  of  the  mountains'? 


270  all-saints'  eve. 

Presently  Madame  de  Peyrelade  rose  from  her 
knees,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"He  is  not  guilty,  Monsieur  le  Lieutenant!"  she 
cried,  sobbing.  "Eugene  is  not  guilty!  Why  have 
you  accused  him  of  this  fearful  crime?  Why  have 
you  brought  this  misery  upon  us?  Was  it  not 
enough,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  body,  "was  it  not 
enough  that  my  brother  should  be  assassinated,  but 
that  you — the  guest  under  my  roof — should  seek  to 
fix  the  guilt  upon  my  betrothed  husband?" 

"Madame  la  Comtesse,"  replied  the  Lieutenant, 
with  severe  courtesy,  "you  forget  that  I  am  but  ful- 
filling my  duty  to  the  state.  It  is  not  I  who  act,  but 
the  law  in  my  person.  I  do  not  say  that  Monsieur 
de  Fontane  is  guilty.  It  is  for  the  Judge  to  decide 
that  point.  Appearances  are  strongly  against  him: 
public  opinion  accused  him  before  I  did:  the 
suspicions  of  your  friends  and  dependents  were 
directed  to  him  at  once.     Madame,  be  just." 

Marguerite's  gentle  heart  was  touched. 

"Monsieur  le  Lieutenant,"  she  said,  "I  was  in 
the  wrong.     Forgive  me." 

"Madame,"  replied  the  gentleman,  kindly,  as  he 
held  the  door  for  her  to  pass,  "retire  now  to  your 
chamber,  and  take  some  rest.  I  fear  that  it  will  be 
our  painful  duty,  ere  night,  to  remove  the  body  of 
the  Baron  de  Pradines  to  St.  Flour.  Should  such 
commands  arrive  from  the  judicial  authorities,  I  re- 
gret to  say  that  it  will  be  imperative  upon  me  to 
include  yourself,  some  of  your  people,  and  the 
Chevalier  de  Fontane  among  our  party.  Fear  no- 
thing, Madame,  and  hope  for  the  best.     Perseve- 


all-saints'  eve.  2/1 

ranee  alone  can  aid  us  now;  and  the  stricter  are  our 
investigations,  the  more  completely  shall  we,  I  hope, 
prove  the  innocence  of  Monsieur  de  Fontane." 

The  lady  retired,  and  the  Lieutenant  of  Police 
returned  to  his  contemplation  of  the  corpse. 

He  was  not  wrong.  Before  night  a  party  of  sol- 
diers arrived,  bringing  with  them  a  paper  of  instruc- 
tions from  the  authorities  both  military  and  civil. 
Before  day-break  on  the  following  morning  the  gloomy 
procession — including  the  Countess,  two  of  her  wo- 
men-servants, the  Chevalier  de  Fontane,  Father 
Jacques,  and  his  assistants — set  off  for  St.  Flour. 
The  body  of  the  murdered  officer,  in  a  plain  black 
coffin  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  six  gendarmes, 
brought  up  the  rear. 

From  the  moment  of  his  arrest  the  Chevalier 
had  scarcely  spoken,  except  to  utter  broken  ejacula- 
tions of  grief  and  horror.  The  mountaineers  who 
guarded  the  door  of  his  chamber  had  heard  him 
restlessly  pacing  to  and  fro  all  that  dreadful  night. 

Food  had  been  twice  or  thrice  brought  to  him, 
but  there  it  still  lay  untouched,  untasted.  Being 
summoned  to  the  carriage  that  was  to  convey  him 
to  St.  Flour,  he  went  quite  silently  and  submissively, 
between  a  couple  of  guards. 

In  the  hall  they  passed  the  coffin.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  young  man  paused.  He  turned  very  pale, 
took  off  his  hat,  crossed  himself  devoutly,  and 
passed  on. 

Only  once  he  was  seen  to  give  way  to  emotion. 
It  was  when  the  Lieutenant  of  Police  stepped  into 
the  carriage  and  took  his  seat  opposite  to  him. 


2  72  ALL- SAINTS'  EVE. 

"Monsieur,"  he  exclaimed,  passionately,  "one 
word,  for  mercy's  sake!  Does  she  believe  that  I  am 
guilty?" 

"Monsieur  de  Fontane,"  replied  the  Lieutenant, 
briefly  but  kindly,  "Madame  la  Comtesse  entertains 
no  doubt  of  your  innocence." 

The  prisoner's  whole  countenance  brightened. 
He  bent  his  head  gratefully,  and  spoke  no  more 
during  the  rest  of  the  journey. 


ALL-SAINTS    EVE.  2  J  3 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The   Trial. 

The  court-house  was  crowded  in  every  part. 
The  judge  in  gloomy  state,  the  robed  lawyers,  the 
busy  avocats,  the  imperious  ushers— all  were  there. 
It  was  a  dark,  wintry  day.  The  great  chandeliers 
were  lighted  in  the  hall.  The  windows  were  closed; 
but  a  little  patch  of  daylight  streamed  in  at  the  ceil- 
de-boeuf  overhead,  and  made  the  murky  atmosphere 
still  darker  by  contrast. 

All  Madame  de  Peyrelade's  dear  friends,  who 
had  fled  so  precipitately  the  evening  of  the  murder, 
might  have  been  seen  in  various  parts  of  the  court- 
house, chattering  to  each  other  with  the  most  lively 
interest,  and  now  and  then  affecting  a  tone  of  pro- 
found compassion  for  "ce  pauvre  Baron,"  or  "cette 
charmante  Madame  la  Comtesse."  They,  however, 
agreed  unanimously  in  condemning  the  unfortunate 
Chevalier.  All  had  discovered  that  his  countenance 
wore  a  very  cruel  and  sinister  expression.  One  had 
never  liked  him  from  a  boy:  another  had  mistrusted 
him  from  the  first:  a  third  said  it  was  rumoured 
that  he  had  been  much  disliked  in  Prussia,  and 
even  dismissed  the  service:  a  fourth  would  not  be 
in  the  least  surprised  to  hear  that  this  assassination 
was  not  the  first  of  which  he  had  been  guilty. 

The  Black  Forest.  l% 


274  all-saints'  eve. 

The  object  of  these  charitable  remarks  sat,  how- 
ever, pale  and  composed,  in  the  space  railed  off  for 
the  prisoner.  Not  the  soldiers  who  stood  behind  his 
chair  were  more  completely  unmoved.  He  looked 
worn  and  sorrowful,  but  neither  desponding  nor 
abashed.  He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  complete  mourn- 
ing. His  lawyer  sat  at  a  table  near  him,  with  far  the 
more  troubled  countenance  of  the  two.  In  a  room 
set  apart  for  the  witnesses  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
Justice  Hall  might  have  been  observed  the  three 
herdsmen  who  discovered  the  body,  the  Chevalier's 
servant,  some  gendarmes,  and  several  strangers. 

Near  the  bench,  on  a  raised  platform,  sat  a 
veiled  lady  in  deep  mourning,  surrounded  by  a  party 
of  her  friends.  This  was  Madame  de  Peyrelade. 
Near  her  stood  the  Commandeur  de  Fontane,  the 
Lieutenant  of  Police,  and  some  other  gentlemen  of 
the  province. 

A  dense  crowd  of  townspeople,  Auvergne 
peasants,  and  country  gentry  filled  the  court-house 
to  the  very  passages  and  ante-rooms. 

The  proceedings  opened  with  a  short  address 
from  the  Advocate-General,  of  which  not  one  syllable 
was  to  be  heard  above  the  incessant  hum  of  voices. 
Then  he  sat  down,  and  Pere  Jacques  was  placed  in 
the  witness-box. 

The  noise  instantly  subsided;  the  interest  of  the 
assembled  multitude  was  excited;  and  the  business 
of  the  day  began  in  earnest. 

The  honest  cowkeeper  gave  his  testimony  in  a 
straightforward,  unhesitating  voice.  He  had  been 
to  high  mass  at  the  chapel  of  St.  Saturnin  with  his 


all-saints'  eve.  275 

two  companions — Pierre,  the  boutillier,  and  Henri, 
the  herdsman.  They  were  returning  from  thence 
to  the  Chateau  de  Peyrelade,  where  Madame  had 
invited  all  her  dependents  to  supper  in  the  servant's 
hall,  while  she  gave  a  grand  entertainment  in  the 
state-rooms  to  all  the  gentry  of  the  province.  He 
(Jacques)  and  his  friends  were  walking  leisurely 
along,  laughing  and  talking,  and  thinking  of  nothing 
but  the  wedding  which  was  to  take  place  on  the 
morrow.  When  they  had  turned  the  foot  of  the 
Rocher  Rouge,  which  lies  between  the  chapel  and 
the  Chateau,  and  were  coming  down  into  the  valley, 
Henri,  who  was  a  little  in  advance,  gave  a  great 
cry,  and  shouted  "Murder!"  And  sure  enough, 
when  he  (Jacques)  came  up,  there  was  a  man  lying 
upon  his  face  under  a  tree,  with  his  horse  standing 
beside  him,  trembling  all  over  and  covered  with 
foam.  They  lifted  the  body,  and  found  that  it  was 
the  Baron  de  Pradines.  Then  they  wrapped  it  in 
his  cloak,  and  picked  up  the  musket,  which  had 
fallen  beside  him  on  the  grass.  There  was  no  one 
in  sight,  and  there  were  no  signs  of  any  struggle. 
He  (Jacques)  felt  the  body:  the  Baron  was  quite 
dead,  but  not  yet  cold.     He  had  no  more  to  say. 

M.  le  Lieutenant  de  Police.     "At  what   hour   of 
the  evening  did  this  occur?" 

Jacques.    "As  near  as  I  can  guess,  M.  le  Lieu- 
tenant, about  nine,  or  a  quarter  past." 
Lieut.     "Was  it  dark  at  the  time1?" 
Jacques.     "It  was  neither  dark  nor  light,  Mon- 
sieur.    The  moon  kept  going  in  and  out,  and  the 


276  all-saints'  eve. 

snow  began  to  come  down  just  after  we  had  found 
the  body." 

Lieut.     "Did  you  hear  any  shots  fired1?" 

Jacques.     "No,  M.  le  Lieutenant." 

Lieut.  "But  if  the  body  was  not  cold,  the  shots 
could  not  have  been  fired  very  long  before  you  dis- 
covered it1?" 

Jacques.  "That  might  be,  too,  M.  le  Lieute- 
nant; for  the  wind  set  the  other  way,  towards  the 
Chateau,  and  would  have  carried  the  noise  away 
from  us." 

Lieut.     "At  what  time  did  the  mass  begin?" 

Jacques.  "At  seven  o'clock,  Monsieur  le  Lieute- 
nant." 

Pierre  and  Henri  were  next  examined. 

These  witnesses  corroborated  the  testimony  of 
Father  Jacques.  The  first  in  a  nervous  and  con- 
fused manner,  the  second  in  a  bold  and  steady 
voice.  Pierre  looked  several  times  in  a  contrite 
and  supplicating  manner  towards  the  Chevalier  de 
Fontane  and  Madame  de  Peyrelade;  but  neither 
observed  him. 

He  was  very  penitent  and  unhappy.  He  felt 
that  it  was  through  his  indiscretion  that  the  be- 
trothed lover  of  his  mistress  was  placed  in  this  posi- 
tion of  peril;  and  he  would  have  given  the  world 
to  be  far  enough  away  in  the  desolate  Buron. 

Henri  stated  that,  after  finding  the  body,  he 
climbed  the  high  tree  beneath  which  it  lay,  for  the 
purpose  of  reconnoitring;  but  no  person  was  in 
sight. 


all-saints'  eve.  277 

The  Lieutenant  of  Police  next  examined  the 
houtillier  Pierre. 

Lieut.  "Repeat  what  you  said  of  the  quarrel 
between  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  and  the  Baron  de 
Pradines." 

Pierre,  [in  great  confusion]:  "I  know  nothing, 
Monsieur,  beyond  what  the  poor  people  say  about 
the  village." 

Lieut.  "Well,  and  what  do  the  poor  people  say 
about  the  village  ?" 

Pierre.     "Indeed,  Monsieur,  I  know  nothing." 

Lieut.  "You  must  speak.  You  must  not  trifle 
with  the  law." 

Pierre.  uMon  Dieu!  they  only  said  that  Mon- 
sieur le  Baron  wanted  Madame's  money  and  estates 
himself,  and  that  he  hated  Monsieur  le  Chevalier, 
because  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  loved  Madame  and 
Madame  loved  him." 

Lieut.  "And  from  whom  did  you  hear  these 
reports'?" 

Pierre.  "From  Pere  Jacques,  Monsieur  le  Lieute- 
nant." 

Lieut,  [cross-examining  Jacques  the  cow-keeper] 
"What  did  you  know,  witness,  of  the  difference 
between  these  gentlemen?" 

Jacques.     "Nothing,  M.  le  Lieutenant." 

Lieut.    "Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  such  quarrel?" 

Jacques.  "I  don't  deny  to  have  heard  it  talked 
about,  Monsieur." 

Lieut.     "Whom  did  you  hear  talk  about  it?" 

Jacques.  "I  have  heard  Gustave,  Monsieur  le 
Chevalier's  valet,  say  so  many  times." 


278  all-saints'  eve. 

Lieut,  [examining  Gustave]  "Relate  all  you  know 
or  have  heard  respecting  the  differences  that  are 
said  to  have  arisen  between  your  master  and  the 
late  Baron  de  Pradines." 

Gustave.  "I  came  with  my  master,  the  Chevalier 
de  Fontane,  from  Prussia,  about  ten  weeks  ago.  As 
soon  as  we  got  near  the  Chateau  de  Peyrelade,  my 
master  met  with  an  accident.  We  got  him  into  the 
house,  where  he  stayed  some  weeks,  till  he  had 
quite  recovered.  The  Countess  and  my  master 
were  old  lovers,  and  very  glad  to  meet  each  other 
again.  They  made  up  the  match  between  them- 
selves the  very  next  day,  and  Madame  sent  for  a 
priest,  who  absolved  her  of  a  vow  that  she  had 
made,  never  to  marry  again.  After  the  priest  was 
gone,  M.  le  Baron,  who  had  been  out  since  the 
morning,  came  home,  and  Madame  informed  him 
that  she  was  betrothed  to  the  Chevalier,  and  that 
the  marriage  would  take  place  in  a  few  weeks.  M. 
le  Baron  was  furious.  He  swore  at  Madame,  and 
at  M.  de  Fontane,  and  even  at  the  priest.  He  asked 
Madame  if  she  had  no  respect  for  her  vow  or  her 
soul,  and  he  called  M.  le  Chevalier  a  villain  and  a 
coward  to  his  face.  M.  le  Chevalier  was  too  ill  and 
weak  to  pay  any  attention  to  him;  but  Madame  was 
very  indignant,  and  told  her  brother  that  it  was 
himself  who  was  the  coward,  so  to  insult  a  woman 
and  a  sick  man.  In  a  word,  Madame  said  that,  if 
he  could  not  conduct  himself  more  like  a  gentleman, 
he  had  better  leave  the  house.  And  so  M.  le  Baron 
did  leave  the  house  that  very  night,  and  set  off  for 
his  regiment.    But  it  did  not  end  here.    M.  le  Baron 


all-saints'  eve.  279 

had  been  gone  only  a  very  few  days  when  he  sent 
abusive  and  violent  letters  to  Madame,  and  to  Mon- 
sieur le  Chevalier;  and  I  heard  that  he  had  also  the 
audacity  to  send  one  to  the  holy  priest;  but  this  I 
cannot  be  sure  of.  Madame  had  no  sooner  read 
hers  than  she  burnt  it;  but  Monsieur  le  Chevalier 
only  laughed,  and  threw  his  into  his  writing-case. 
He  said  that  the  writer  deserved  a  good  thrashing, 
but  did  not  seem  at  all  angry.  In  a  few  days  there 
came  another  letter  to  M.  le  Chevalier,  and  this 
time  the  Baron  threatened  to  bring  the  matter  be- 
fore Holy  Church  on  account  of  Madame's  broken 
vow,  as  he  called  it;  for  he  would  not  hear  of  the 
absolution  granted  by  M.  le  Cure.  This  letter  vexed 
M.  le  Chevalier  a  good  deal,  for  he  could  not  bear 
the  idea  of  Madame's  name  being  brought  into  a 
court  of  ecclesiastical  law;  and  so  he  wrote  back  a 
very  sharp  answer  to  M.  le  Baron,  representing  the 
odium  which  it  would  bring  both  upon  himself 
and  the  family,  and  telling  him  how  perfectly  use- 
less such  a  step  would  be,  since  Madame  was  alto- 
gether absolved  from  her  rash  engagement.  Well, 
the  Baron  never  wrote  any  reply  to  this  letter;  but 
about  a  week  before  All  Saints'  Day,  Madame  sent 
a  very  kind  and  loving  letter  to  her  brother  (at  least 
so  I  overheard  her  telling  Monsieur  le  Chevalier), 
and  invited  him  to  the  wedding.  Whether  it  was 
that  M.  le  Baron  thought  it  would  be  no  use  hold- 
ing out;  or  whether  he  really  was  sorry  for  having 
been  so  unkind;  or  whether  he  only  intended  to 
spoil  the  festivities  by  being  disagreeable  to  every- 
body, I  cannot  tell;  but  at  all  events  he  wrote  back, 


280  all-saints'  eve. 

accepting  Madame's  invitation,  and  saying  he  hoped 
she  would  be  happy,  and  that  she  and  Monsieur 
would  forget  the  past,  and  receive  him  as  a  brother. 
You  may  be  sure  that  Madame  was  delighted;  and 
Monsieur  le  Chevalier  declared  that  for  his  part  he 
was  quite  ready  to  shake  hands  with  him.  No  more 
letters  passed,  and  I  never  saw  M.  de  Pradines  again 
till  he  was  brought  in  dead  on  the  evening  of  All 
Saints'  Day." 

Here  the  judge  desired  that  the  writing-case  of 
M.  de  Fontane  should  be  brought  into  court;  and 
a  small  black  folio  was  accordingly  laid  upon  the 
table  by  one  of  the  attendants.  It  was  found  to 
contain,  among  various  unimportant  papers,  two 
letters  from  the  deceased  addressed  to  M.  le  Che- 
valier. Both  were  corroborative  of  the  depositions 
of  the  last  witness,  and  were  couched  in  violent  and 
abusive  language. 

The  Lieutenant  of  Police,  cross-examining  the 
servant  of  M.  de  Fontane,  then  continued: — 

"Where  was  M.  de  Fontane  on  All-Saints' 
Day?" 

Gustave.  "My  master  left  the  Chateau  early  in 
the  morning  for  Murat,  where  the  notary  resided  to 
whom  he  had  confided  the  drawing  up  of  the  con- 
tract and  settlements.  Monsieur  was  to  have  re- 
turned by  six  o'clock,  bringing  the  papers  with  him; 
but  he  did  not  arrive  till  between  nine  and  ten 
o'clock." 

Lieut.     "Let  the  notary  be  called." 

M.  Francois,  notary  and  avocat  of  Murat,  was 
then  called  to  the  witness-box. 


all-saints'  eve.  281 

Lieut.  "At  what  hour  did  the  Chevalier  de 
Fontane  leave  your  offices  at  Murat?" 

M.  Francois.  "At  about  six  o'clock:  the  papers 
were  not  ready,  and  he  waited  for  them." 

Lieut.  "How  long  would  it  take  a  man  to  ride 
from  Murat  to  the  Chateau?" 

M.  Francois.     "About  two  hours." 

Lieut.  "He  should  then  have  reached  Peyrelade 
about  eight?" 

M.  Francois.     "I  suppose  so,  Monsieur." 

Lieut.  "Did  the  Chevalier  appear  at  all  excited 
or  out  of  humour?" 

M.  Francois.  "He  appeared  excited,  and  in 
the  highest  spirits;  but  not  in  the  least  out  of  hu- 
mour." 

Marguerite  de  Peyrelade,  nee  Pradines,  was  then 
summoned  by  the  crier.  She  rose  from  her  chair 
with  difficulty,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  Comman- 
deur,  and  was  about  to  proceed  to  the  witness-box, 
but  the  judge  begged  her  to  remain  seated. 

A  sympathetic  murmur  ran  through  the  court. 
She  raised  her  veil  and  looked  steadily  at  the 
Lieutenant,  never  once  glancing  towards  the  prisoner, 
who,  pale  and  trembling,  was  observing  her  every 
movement. 

"Madame  de  Peyrelade,"  said  the  Lieutenant, 
"do  you  remember  to  have  heard  M.  de  Fontane 
utter  any  hostile  expressions  on  receipt  of  either  of 
the  letters  lately  examined?" 

Madame  had  nothing  to  say  beyond  what  had 
been  stated  by  Gustave,  Monsieur  de  Fontane's 
servant. 


282  all-saints'  eve. 

"Did  Madame  think  that  Monsieur  de  Fontane 
thoroughly  pardoned  the  imprudent  language  of  M. 
de  Pradines?" 

The  lady  said  that  she  believed  it  from  her 
heart. 

"Did  not  Madame,  on  the  night  of  her  fete, 
leave  the  salon  and  go  out  a  little  after  nine  o'clock 
on  the  terrace  at  the  west  side  of  the  Chateau?" 

She  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"Did  not  Madame  aver  that  she  then  heard  two 
shots  fired,  at  a  considerable  distance  from  the 
Chateau?" 

She  did,  and  was  greatly  terrified. 

"Could  Madame  have  been  mistaken  as  to  the 
second  report?  Is  Madame  certain  that  she  dis- 
tinguished more  than  one?" 

The  Countess  said  that  she  undoubtedly  heard 
a  second. 

"Still,  might  not  Madame  have  been  deceived — 
by  an  echo,  for  instance?" 

The  lady  was  convinced  of  the  accuracy  of  her 
statement. 

Here  there  was  a  pause  of  some  minutes,  during 
which  the  lawyers  whispered  together,  and  the 
Lieutenant  of  Police  conferred  with  the  Judge. 

He  then  went  on  with  the  examination. 

"How  long  an  interval  elapsed,  Madame,  be- 
tween the  two  reports?" 

"Scarcely  a  minute,  I  should  think,"  replied  the 
Countess. 

There  was  another  pause.  Then  the  Lieutenant 
of  Police  thanked  her  for  her  information,  and  in- 


all-saints'  eve.  283 

timated  that,  for  the  present,  she  would  not  be 
troubled  farther. 

Some  gendarmes  were  then  summoned,  and  gave 
their  evidence  as  follows: — 

Paul  Dubourg,  gendarme  in  the  Baillage  of  St. 
Flour.  "I  have  examined  the  body  and  fire-arms 
of  the  late  Baron,  in  the  presence  of  M.  le  Lieute- 
nant of  Police.  A  musket  was  found  lying  beside 
the  body,  and  a  brace  of  pistols  were  in  his  riding- 
belt.  None  of  these  had  been  discharged.  All  the 
pieces  were  loaded." 

Lieut.  "Should  you  suppose  that  the  Baron  had 
made  any  defence?" 

P.  Dubourg.     "Evidently  none,  Monsieur." 

Michel  Perrin,  gendarme  in  the  Baillage  of  St. 
Flour,  corroborated  the  testimony  of  Paul  Du- 
bourg. 

Monsieur  Berthet,  Surgeon,  was  then  called  for. 
He  testified  that  the  Baron  de  Pradines  had  died  of 
a  fracture  of  the  skull  caused  by  a  wound  in  the 
temple.  The  wound  was  given  by  a  musket-ball, 
which  had  struck  him  three-quarters  of  an  inch 
above  the  eyebrow,  and  entered  the  brain.  He  (M. 
Berthet)  had  extracted  the  ball,  which  he  now  laid 
before  the  Court.  From  the  wound  being  inflicted 
in  the  front  of  the  head,  witness  concluded  that  he 
must  have  been  face  to  face  with  the  assassin.  At 
the  same  time,  the  fact  of  none  of  his  own  weapons 
being  used  countenanced  the  probability  of  a  sur- 
prise. Could  not  conceive  how  it  was  possible  that 
two  shots  should  have  been  fired  without  the  Baron's 
offering  any  resistance.     Had  the  first  taken  effect, 


284  all-saints'  eve. 

there  was  then  no  need  of  a  second:  whereas,  if  the 
first  failed,  the  Baron  would  surely  have  defended 
himself  against  a  second.  Had  no  more  to  say,  and 
left  the  witness-box. 

Louis  Masson,  groom  to  Madame  de  Peyrelade, 
was  next  examined. 

Lieut,  of  Police.  "You  were  in  the  stables  when 
Monsieur  de  Fontane  returned  on  the  evening  of 
All  Saints'  Day?" 

L.  Masson.     "I  was,  Monsieur  le  Lieutenant." 

Lieut.  "In  what  condition  was  his  horse  when 
he  arrived1?" 

L.  Masson.  "The  horse  was  covered  with  sweat, 
and  appeared  to  have  been  ridden  fast.  It  trembled 
a  good  deal  likewise,  as  if  it  had  been  frightened, 
and  there  were  some  spots  of  blood  on  the  chest 
and  knees.  The  saddle  was  also  spotted  with 
blood." 

Lieut.  "How  did  M.  de  Fontane  seem  when  he 
rode  in?" 

L.  Masson.  "He  seemed  very  much  excited, 
M.  le  Lieutenant.  His  neckcloth  and  waistcoat 
were  stained  with  blood,  and  his  hand  was  tied  in 
a  handkerchief." 

Lieut.  "Did  he  make  any  remarks  to  you  about 
it?" 

L.  Masson.  "Yes,  Monsieur,  he  laughed  a  good 
deal,  in  a  wild  sort  of  way,  and  said  he  had  been 
settling  a  wolf  among  the  mountains." 

There  was  a  movement  of  horror  throughout  the 
Court. 

Lieut.     "A  wolf?     Did  you  believe  him?" 


all-saints'  eve.  285 

L.  Masson.  "Why,  yes,  Monsieur;  none  of  us 
doubted  him,  for  he's  a  brave  young  gentleman, 
and  has  killed  many  a  noted  wolf  in  the  woods 
about  Pradines,  in  the  old  Baron's  time.  To  be 
sure,  when  M.  le  Baron  was  brought  in,  soon  after, 
we  could  not  help  recollecting  the  disagreement 
which  they  had  lately  had,  and  we  did  think  that 
M.  le  Chevalier  had  indeed  settled  a  wolf;  but  one 
of  another  sort.  However,  I  said  nothing  till  Pierre 
the  boutillier  spoke  out  to  your  worship  in  the 
hall." 

Lieut.  "Bring  into  court  the  clothes  worn  by 
the  Chevalier  de  Fontane  and  the  firearms  that  he 
carried  about  his  person  on  the  evening  in  question." 

A  servant  here  laid  some  clothes,  a  musket,  and 
a  pair  of  holsters  on  the  table.  The  clothes  were 
then  carefully  examined.  The  waistcoat,  cravat, 
and  shirt-front  were  spotted  in  several  places  with 
blood.  The  lawyers  shook  their  heads,  and  the 
prisoner's  advocate,  who  had  not  yet  spoken,  looked 
grave  and  uneasy. 

The  Lieutenant  took  up  the  musket. 

"This  weapon  has  been  discharged,"  he  said,  as 
he  passed  it  to  the  Judge  for  inspection. 

He  then  drew  the  pistols  from  the  holsters,  and 
examined  the  priming  of  both. 

"Neither  of  these  pistols  has  been  used,"  he 
said,  as  he  passed  them  on.     "Both  are  loaded." 

No  second  shot,  therefore,  had  been  fired. 

The  Countess  clasped  her  hands,  and  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  thankfulness. 

"Nay,     Madame,"     whispered     the    Lieutenant 


286  all-saints'  eve. 

kindly,  "we  must  not  begin  to  hope  too  soon.  This 
one  ambiguous  circumstance  will  not  alone  be  suffi- 
cient to  clear  our  friend.  We  must  have  patience 
and  fortitude." 

The  Prosecutor  for  the  Crown  then  rose,  and 
summed  up  the  evidence.  The  substance  of  his 
speech  was  this:  —  "That  the  body  of  George, 
Baron  de  Pradines,  had  been  discovered  by  three 
servants  of  the  Countess  de  Peyrelade,  lying  dead 
in  the  valley  known  as  the  Val  du  Rocher  Rouge, 
on  the  evening  of  All  Saints'  Day.  It  was  known 
that  M.  de  Fontane  had  had  some  misunderstanding 
with  the  deceased,  and  had  received  from  him  letters 
of  a  threatening  nature.  M.  de  Fontane  had  been 
out  all  day  at  Murat,  and  in  returning  thence  must 
pass  through  that  valley.  Monsieur  de  Fontane 
left  Murat  at  six  o'clock,  and  did  not  reach  the 
Chateau  de  Peyrelade  till  between  nine  and  ten. 
The  journey  need  not  occupy  longer  than  two  hours. 
What  had  the  Chevalier  done  with  the  surplus  time? 
He  arrives  at  the  Chateau  in  an  excited  state,  with 
his  clothes  blood-stained,  and  his  horse  trembling 
as  if  from  terror  and  hard  riding.  His  voice  is 
wild,  and  he  says  he  has  killed  'a  wolf.'  When  the 
body  is  brought  to  the  Chateau  and  he  is  interrogated 
by  M.  le  Lieutenant,  he  betrays  manifest  confusion 
and  alarm.  Even  the  grooms  and  herdsmen  attach 
suspicion  to  him;  and,  as  if  to  cherish  the  lingering 
rancour  which  he  entertained  against  M.  de  Pradines, 
both  the  letters  sent  to  him  by  that  gentleman  are 
found  preserved  in  his  writing-case.  Madame  la 
Comtesse  affirms  that  she  heard  two  shots  fired  on 


all-saints'  eve.  287 

the  night  of  the  murder,  and  only  one  of  M.  de 
Fontane's  weapons  has  been  discharged.  He  felt 
bound  to  say  that  this  circumstance  tended  to  the 
advantage  of  the  prisoner;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
everyone  knew  that,  to  a  lady  in  the  naturally 
anxious  state  of  mind  of  Madame  de  Peyrelade, 
every  sight  and  sound  becomes  magnified.  What 
more  likely  than  that  the  second  shot  should  be  a 
mere  trick  of  the  distempered  imagination?  The 
examination  of  the  weapons  proved  that  one  shot 
only  could  have  been  fired.  Out  of  four  pistols 
and  two  muskets — six  firearms  in  all — one  only  had 
been  discharged;  and  that  was  the  musket  of  M. 
de  Fontane.  He  believed  that  nothing  farther 
could  be  said  on  the  subject." 

The  Judge  then  asked  the  prisoner  if  he  had 
anything  to  reply. 

M.  de  Fontane  rose,  pale  and  self-possessed. 
He  bowed  to  the  Judge,  to  the  Procureur  du  Roi, 
and  to  the  Lieutenant  of  Police. 

"My  Lord,"  he  said  calmly,  "I  have  little  to 
urge  in  my  defence,  except  to  assever  my  innocence. 
I  left  Murat  at  six,  and  set  off  briskly  for  the 
Chateau  de  Peyrelade.  Before  half-an-hour  had 
elapsed,  the  evening  became  quite  dark.  Much 
snow  had  already  fallen,  and  by  the  time  I  entered 
upon  the  road  across  the  mountains,  the  way  was 
not  only  dark,  but  slippery  for  my  horse.  I  dis- 
mounted, and  led  him  up  the  first  steep  ascent. 
I  thus  lost  considerable  time.  When  I  came  down 
at  the  opposite  side  and  arrived  at  the  open  space 
whence  five  different  ways  branch  off  in  five  different 


288  all-saints'  eve. 

directions,  I  found  myself  altogether  at  fault.  I  had 
not  travelled  this  country  for  many  years — the  snow- 
had  changed  the  general  features  of  the  place,  and 
it  was  just  then  quite  dark.  I  thought  it  best  to 
leave  all  to  the  sagacity  of  the  horse,  and,  re-mount- 
ing, dropped  the  reins  upon  his  neck,  and  let  him 
choose  his  way.  He  was  as  much  perplexed  as 
myself.  Twice  he  turned  towards  the  road  on  our 
left;  then,  after  a  momentary  pause,  chose  a  road 
straight  before  us.  So  we  went  on.  The  farther 
we  went,  however,  the  more  I  became  convinced 
that  the  horse  had  taken  a  wrong  direction.  At 
last  I  found  that  we  were  entering  a  thick  wood, 
and  as  I  knew  there  should  be  nothing  of  the  kind 
on  the  way  to  the  Chateau,  I  turned  the  horse's  head, 
and  began  to  retrace  our  steps.  Scarcely  had  I 
proceeded  a  dozen  yards  on  the  way  back,  when  I 
heard  a  distant  howl.  The  horse  stopped  instinc- 
tively, and  we  both  listened.  Again  that  sound,  and 
nearer!  I  needed  no  spur  to  urge  my  steed  on  his 
flight — that  ominous  cry  was  enough.  Away  he 
started  with  me,  as  if  we  had  not  gone  a  mile  that 
day!  It  was  of  little  use;  for  the  wolf  gained  on  us, 
and  at  last  I  descried  him  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  behind,  coming  with  savage  speed  along  the 
snow.  I  now  saw  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
a  mortal  combat  with  the  brute.  So  I  alighted 
quietly,  and  waited  for  him,  a  clasp-knife  open  and 
ready  in  my  belt,  and  my  gun  on  the  cock.  I  did 
not  tie  the  horse  to  a  tree,  for  I  thought  if  the  wolf 
conquered,  the  poor  animal  might  at  least  have  the 
chance  of  escape.     The  beast  was  up  in  less  time 


ALL- SAINTS'  EVE.  289 

too  than  I  take  to  tell  it.  When  within  a  couple 
of  yards,  he  stopped,  seeing  me  prepared  to  receive 
him.  His  eyes  were  red  and  bright  as  coals — his 
sides  gaunt  —  his  tongue  lolling  from  his  mouth. 
His  hot  breath  smoked  in  the  frosty  air.  So  we 
stood  for  a  second  or  two,  face  to  face — the  wolf 
and  I.  Then  he  gave  a  low  howl,  and  as  he  sprang 
towards  me,  I  fired!  I  hit  him — lamed  one  of  his 
fore-legs;  but  that  only  made  him  more  furious,  for 
he  was  on  me  again  directly,  like  a  tiger!  I  tried  in 
vain  to  beat  him  off  with  my  gun,  but  he  was  too 
strong  for  me;  so  I  threw  it  down,  got  my  knife 
from  my  belt,  and  held  it  between  my  teeth.  As  I 
did  so,  he  snapped  at  my  hand  and  nearly  tore  my 
fingers  off.  Then  I  threw  my  arms  round  the  brute, 
and  fell  upon  him.  It  was  my  last  resource — he 
was  under,  and  if  I  could  only  keep  him  there,  and 
strangle  him,  or  cut  his  throat,  I  was  safe.  It  was 
a  frightful  moment.  My  head  swam  —  my  breath 
failed — then  I  gathered  up  all  my  remaining  strength, 
and  plunged  the  knife  in  his  throat!  He  moaned, 
his  head  fell  back — the  struggle  was  over — he  was 
dead!  I  then  mounted  my  horse,  who  had  never 
once  offered  to  leave  me,  though  he  stood  trembling 
all  over  with  terror.  I  cheered  him  on — I  shouted 
— I  laughed — I  sang!  I  rode  like  a  madman  at  full 
speed,  and  when  I  reached  the  Chateau  I  had  not 
yet  recovered  from  the  excitement  of  the  contest. 
I  came  out  of  a  death-fight  to  a  brilliant  company 
— from  a  wolf  to  a  bride;  and  I  was  just  about  to 
relate  my  adventure — when — when,  my  Lord,  the 
corpse  of  the  Baron  de  Pradines  was  brought  into 

The  Black  Forest.  19 


290  all-saints'  eve. 

the  room,  and  I  heard  myself  accused  of  being  his 
murderer!  I  have  no  more  to  say.  I  have  stated 
the  whole  truth.  I  lost  my  way,  and  almost  my 
life.  I  am  innocent,  and  God  will  judge  me  rightly, 
however  my  fellow-men  may  decide  against  me." 

The  young  man  sat  down,  flushed  with  the 
relation  of  his  c®mbat,  and  confident  in  the  justice 
of  his  cause. 

A  loud  murmur  of  sympathy  and  satisfaction 
ran  through  the  Court,  and  the  prisoner  was  re- 
warded for  all  his  sufferings  by  one  glad  and  loving 
glance  from  Marguerite  de  Peyrelade.  Her  mind 
was  now  relieved  of  every  doubt;  and,  indeed, 
with  the  exception  of  the  lawyers,  there  was  not  a 
soul  in  the  hall  who  doubted  his  innocence. 

When  the  murmur  had  subsided,  more  witnesses 
were  called. 

Antoine  Guinot  and  Elie  Blainval,  two  gendarmes, 
next  gave  evidence. 

Lieut,  of  Police.  "Antoine  Guinot — you  went 
by  my  orders  to  inspect  the  roads  among  the 
mountains." 

A.  Guinot.     "Yes,  M.  le  Lieutenant." 

Lieut.  "Did  you  there  discover  the  body  of  a 
dead  wolf,  or  any  signs  of  blood  on  the  snow?" 

A.  Guinot.     "No,  M.  le  Lieutenant." 

Lieut.  "Did  you  thoroughly  search  the  Val  du 
Rocher  Rouge?" 

A.  Guinot.  "Yes,  Monsieur.  There  was  no  dead 
wolf  to  be  seen  in  any  part.  Snow  had  been  falling 
for  two  days  and  nights  before  we  got  there,  so 
there  would  have  been  nothing  but  the  carcase  of 


all-saints'  eve.  291 

the  beast  to  guide  us;  but  there  was  no  such  car- 
case anywhere  about." 

Elie  Blainval  was  next  examined.  Went  with 
the  last  witness.  Saw  no  carcase.  Snow  was  deep 
on  the  ground,  and  of  course  no  stains  or  other 
marks  could  be  distinguished.  Would  swear  there 
was  no  dead  wolf  anywhere  on  the  mountain  roads. 
Corroborated  the  statement  of  his  companion  in 
every  particular. 

On  this  the  Prosecutor  for  the  Crown  again  ad- 
dressed the  Court,  but  very  briefly.  The  jury,  he 
said,  had  heard  the  statements  of  the  last  witnesses. 
M.  the  Lieutenant  of  Police  had  despatched  them 
on  the  day  following  the  murder,  as  soon  as  they 
arrived  from  St.  Flour,  in  order  that  the  prisoner's 
statement  might  be  thoroughly  investigated.  No 
carcase  of  any  description  had  been  found.  It  was 
not  his  (the  Prosecutor's)  desire  to  prejudice  his 
hearers  against  the  prisoner;  but  he  felt  it  his  duty 
to  remind  them  that  his  defence  was  unsupported 
by  any  kind  of  proof.  They  had  before  them  a 
strong  case  of  circumstantial  evidence  on  the  one 
side,  and  on  the  other  the  bare  assertion  of  a  man 
whose  only  chance  for  life  depended  on  the  plau- 
sibility of  his  defence  and  the  credulity  of  his 
auditors.  He  begged  now  to  leave  the  matter  in 
the  hands  of  the  Jury. 

After  an  address  from  the  judge,  in  which  he 
summed  up  the  evidence  in  a  very  similar  manner 
to  the  Prosecutor  for  the  Crown,  and  in  which  he 
exhorted  them  to  lay  any  doubts  which  they  might 
entertain  to  the  side  of  mercy,  the  jury  retired. 

19* 


292  all-saints'  eve. 

Then  the  chorus  of  laughter  and  loud  talking, 
so  long  hushed,  broke  forth  again.  By  this  time 
night  had  come  on,  and  the  patch  of  daylight  seen 
through  the  ceil-de-bocuf  had  long  since  disappeared. 
The  young  men  made  bets  with  each  other  on  the 
verdict.  All  the  ladies  took  the  part  of  the  prisoner; 
and,  to  do  them  justice,  most  of  the  gentlemen  like- 
wise. The  peasants  pulled  out  lumps  of  brown 
bread  and  country  cheese,  and  began  to  eat. 

Time  went  on.  Two  hours  passed  away  without 
the  return  of  the  jury.  Then  another  hour.  Ten 
o'clock  struck  by  the  great  clock  over  the  entrance, 
and  the  audience  grew  silent  and  weary.  Still  the 
twelve  came  not.  The  judge  nodded  on  the  bench. 
Madame  de  Peyrelade  sat,  statue-like,  in  the  same 
spot.  The  Chevalier  de  Fontane  paced  the  dock 
in  an  agony  of  suspense. 

Then  eleven  struck;  and  ere  the  last  stroke  had 
died  away,  the  jury  returned  and  took  their  places. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  said  his  lordship,  wak- 
ing up,  "are  you  all  agreed?" 

"Yes,  my  Lord,"  said  the  foreman  slowly  and 
distinctly. 

The  silence  was  intense  throughout  the  court. 
Every  breath  was  held;  every  eye  turned  towards 
him. 

"Do  you  find  the  prisoner  guilty,  or  not  guilty?" 

"Guilty? 

A  loud  murmur  broke  from  all  parts  of  the  hall. 
The  prisoner — a  shade  paler  than  before — folded 
his  arms  across  his  breast,  and  looked  calmly  round 


all-saints'  eve.  293 

him.  The  Countess  de  Peyrelade  was  carried  faint- 
ing from  the  court. 

The  judge  then  pronounced  sentence  of  death. 
Not  a  word  was  audible;  but  his  lips  were  seen  to 
move,  and  he  shed  tears. 

The  Chevalier  was  then  conducted  from  the 
dock;  the  judge  and  jury  retired;  and  the  great 
mass  of  spectators,  undulating  and  noisy,  gradually 
dispersed;  thankful  to  exchange  the  thick,  steaming 
atmosphere  of  the  densely-crowded  Justice  Hall, 
for  the  cold  night-air,  with  the  keen  stars  over- 
head. 

The  trial  had  lasted  fourteen  hours.  They  had 
begun  at  nine  a.m.,  and  it  now  wanted  less  than  an 
hour  to  midnight.  All  was  over — the  hope,  the 
fear,  the  suspense.  The  Chevalier  de  Fontane  was 
condemned  to  die  within  twenty-four  hours. 


294  all-saints'  eve. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

The  Scaffold  and  the  Confession. 

It  is  night.  The  air  is  cold  and  biting;  the 
stars  are  bright  in  the  clear  sky;  and  the  moon  is 
slowly  sinking  behind  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Flour. 
Snow  lies  on  the  ground  and  on  the  house-tops, 
and  everything  looks  pale  in  the  blue  moonlight. 
A  gloomy  platform  hung  with  black  cloth  and  sur- 
rounded by  horse-soldiers,  each  with  a  torch  in  his 
left  hand  and  a  drawn  sword  in  his  right,  stands  in 
the  midst  of  the  public  square.  A  vast  multitude 
is  assembled  outside  the  barriers  that  surround  the 
scaffold.  The  houses  blaze  with  lights,  and  all  the 
windows  are  crowded  with  curious  spectators.  Huge 
and  sombre,  the  prison  rises  on  one  side  of  the 
square,  and  the  church  upon  the  other.  A  low 
unquiet  sound  comes  from  the  indistinct  mass  all 
around,  as  it  heaves  and  sways  from  side  to  side 
in  ever-restless  undulation. 

Now  the  great  Cathedral  clock  strikes  the  first 
stroke  of  ten.  Scarcely  has  it  begun  when  the  iron 
tongues  of  all  the  churches  in  the  town  reply.  They 
clash — they  mingle — they  are  still.  Then  the  gates 
of  the  gaol  swing  apart,  and  a  procession  comes 
slowly  forth.  First,  soldiers;  then  the  sheriff  and 
the  governor  of  the  gaol;  then  more  soldiers;  then 


all-saints'  eve.  295 

the  bishop  of  the  diocese;  then  the  prisoner;  then 
more  soldiers  to  bring  up  the  rear. 

They  pass  slowly  through  a  double  file  of  horse- 
soldiery  till  they  reach  the  scaffold.  They  ascend; 
and  the  sheriff,  with  his  black  wand  in  one  hand, 
advances  with  a  parchment  roll  in  the  other,  and 
reads  aloud  the  dreadful  formula: — 

"He  whom  we  have  brought  hither  is  Eugene 
Fontane,  formerly  called  Chevalier  de  Fontane,  and 
ex-Captain  of  Hussars  in  the  military  service  of  His 
Majesty  the  King  of  Prussia.  The  said  Eugene 
de  Fontane  is  brought  hither  to  suffer  death,  being 
condemned  thereto  by  the  criminal  court  of  this 
town.  He  will  now  be  broken  on  the  wheel,  being 
charged  and  convicted  of  the  crime  of  homicide  on 
the  person  of  the  very  noble,  puissant,  and  excellent 
Seigneur  George,  Baron  de  Pradines,  and,  during 
life,  Captain  of  the  Auvergne  Light  Dragoons.  Pray 
to  God  for  the  repose  of  their  souls!" 

Eugene  is  pale,  but  resigned.  He  has  not  long 
since  taken  leave  of  Marguerite,  and,  despite  the 
agony  of  that  parting,  he  is  comforted,  for  she  be- 
lieves him  innocent.  His  step  is  firm,  his  head 
erect,  his  eye  bright  and  fearless.  His  right  hand 
is  hidden  in  the  breast  of  his  coat,  closely  pressed 
against  his  heart.     It  holds  a  lock  of  her  hair. 

Now  the  bishop  addresses  to  him  the  last  words 
which  a  prisoner  hears  on  earth. 

"Eugene  de  Fontane,"  he  says,  solemnly,  "if 
you  will  speak  the  truth  and  declare  yourself  guilty 


296  all-saints'  eve. 

of  the  crime  for  which  you  are  condemned,  I  am 
here,  in  the  name  of  God,  to  give  you  absolution; 
and  when  you  are  stretched  upon  the  wheel  the 
executioner  will  give  you  the  coup  de  grace,  in  order 
to  spare  you  the  sufferings  which  you  would  other- 
wise endure.  Reflect,  for  the  sake  of  both  body 
and  soul.  Do  you  yet  persist  in  saying  that  you 
are  innocent?" 

The  young  man  cast  a  glance  of  horror  at  the 
hideous  apparatus.  His  lip  quivered,  and  for  a 
moment  his  resolution  seemed  to  fail.  Then  he 
fell  upon  his  knees  and  prayed  silently. 

When  he  rose,  he  was  calm  and  stedfast  as  be- 
fore. 

"Let  the  executioner  do  his  office,"  he  said, 
firmly.  "I  will  not  die  with  a  lie  upon  my  tongue. 
I  am  innocent,  and  Heaven  knows  it." 

The  Chevalier  then  draws  a  ring  from  his  finger 
and  gives  it  to  the  executioner,  in  token  of  pardon. 
And  now  he  takes  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat  and 
holds  out  his  arms  to  be  bound;  and  now,  suddenly, 
a  cry  is  heard  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd — a 
shrill,  piercing,  despairing  cry. 

"Stop!  stop!  let  me  pass!  I  am  the  murderer! — 
he  is  innocent!  I  am  the  murderer  of  the  Baron  de 
Pradines!" 

And  a  mounted  man,  pale,  breathless,  disordered, 
is  seen  pressing  wildly  through  the  crowd.  He  gains 
the  foot  of  the  scaffold — he  rushes  eagerly  up  the 
steps — falls  fainting  at  the  feet  of  the  condemned! 

It  is  the  priest — it  is  Andre  Bernard. 

#  *  #  # 


ALL- SAINTS'  EVE.  297 

Once  again  the  Justice  Hall  is  thronged.  Once 
again  we  see  the  former  crowd;  the  same  faces;  the 
same  peasants;  the  same  lawyers;  the  same  mass  of 
spectators,  noble  and  plebeian;  the  same  judge;  the 
same  jury. 

Yet  there  is  one  great  and  material  difference; 
there  is  not  the  same  prisoner.  Andre  Bernard  is 
in  the  dock,  and  the  Chevalier  de  Fontane  is  no- 
where present. 

Madame  de  Peyrelade  and  servants  are  also 
absent.  Otherwise  the  Court  House  looks  as  it  did 
a  week  since,  when  an  innocent  man  was  there  con- 
demned to  die. 

"Prisoner,"  says  the  Judge,  "the  Court  is  pre- 
pared to  listen  to  your  confession." 

The  Abbe  rose.  A  profound  silence  reigned 
throughout  the  hall.  In  a  voice  broken  with  emo- 
tion, he  began  as  follows: — 

"About  three  months  since,  I  was  visited  by  the 
Baron  de  Pradines  in  my  parsonage  at  St.  Saturnin. 
He  had  not  been  on  good  terms  with  his  sister, 
Madame  de  Peyrelade,  for  some  years,  and  he  now 
desired  a  reconciliation.  He  was  a  man  of  violent 
temper  and  dissolute  habits;  but  he  professed  re- 
pentance for  his  former  courses,  and  ardently  en- 
treated my  intercession  with  Madame.  I  believed 
him,  and  became  the  bearer  of  his  penitent  messages. 
Owing  to  my  representations,  the  lady  believed  him 
also,  and  he  was  received  into  the  Chateau.  A 
fortnight  had  scarcely  elapsed,  when  M.  de  Fontane 
arrived  at  the  Chateau;  and  on  a  due  consideration 
of — of  all  the  previous  events"  (here  the  prisoner's 


298  all-saints'  eve. 

voice  faltered),  "I  absolved  Madame  from  a  rash 
vow  which  she  had  too  hastily  contracted.  Now  M. 
de  Pradines  had  hoped  to  inherit  the  estates  and 
fortune  of  his  sister;  he  was  therefore  much  enraged 
on  finding  that  the  said  vow  was  made  null  and 
void.  He  departed  at  once  to  join  his  regiment, 
and  in  the  course  of  a  few  days  I  received  from  him 
an  abusive  letter.  Of  this  I  took  no  notice,  and  I 
may  say  that  it  caused  me  no  anger.  I  destroyed 
and  forgot  it.  In  about  two  months'  time  from  the 
date  of  his  departure,  the  marriage  of  his  sister  with 
M.  de  Fontane  was  appointed  to  take  place.  The 
Baron,  seeing  the  uselessness  of  further  hostilities, 
then  yielded  to  the  entreaties  of  Madame  and  ac- 
cepted her  invitation,  appointing  the  Fete  of  All- 
Saints  as  the  day  of  his  arrival,  that  he  might  be 
present  at  the  ceremony  of  betrothal.  On  that  day 
I  said  mass  in  the  morning  at  my  chapel,  and  high 
mass  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  I  was  in- 
vited to  the  Chateau  that  evening,  and  nine  was 
the  hour  appointed.  Mass  would  not  be  over  till 
half-past  eight — I  had  therefore  half  an  hour  only  to 
reach  the  Chateau;  and,  as  soon  as  I  had  pro- 
nounced the  benediction,  I  hastened  from  the  chapel 
by  the  side-door,  and  was  some  distance  on  the 
road  before  my  congregation  dispersed.  The  moon 
shone  out  at  times,  and  at  times  was  overcast.  I 
had  my  gun  with  me;  for  after  night-fall  at  this 
season,  the  wolves  are  savage,  and  often  come  down 
from  the  heights.  I  had  not  gone  far  when  I  heard 
a  horse  coming  along  at  full  speed  behind  me.  I 
drew  on  one  side  to  let  the  rider  pass.     The  moon 


all-saints'  eve.  299 

just  then  shone  out,  and  I  recognised  the  Baron  de 
Pradines.  He  knew  me  also;  and  though  he  had 
been  galloping  before,  he  now  reigned  up  his  horse 
and  stood  quite  still. 

"'Good  evening,  most  reverend  Abbe,'  said  he 
in  a  mocking  voice.  'Will  you  favour  me  with  a 
piece  of  godly  information;  for  I  am  but  a  poor 
sinner,  and  need  enlightening.  Pray  how  much 
have  you  been  paid  by  M.  le  Chevalier  for  patching 
up  this  marriage1?' 

"I  felt  my  blood  boil  and  my  cheeks  burn  at 
this  insult,  but  I  affected  to  treat  it  as  a  jest. 

"'You  are  facetious,  Monsieur  le  Baron,'  I  re- 
plied. 

"'Not  at  all,'  he  said,  with  a  bitter  laugh.  'Gen- 
tlemen in  your  profession,  M.  le  Cure,  have  their 
prices  for  everything;  from  the  absolution  for  a  vow 
to  the  absolution  for  a  murder.' 

"'Monsieur,'  I  replied,  'your  expressions  exceed 
the  limits  of  pleasantry.' 

'"Not  at  all,  Monsieur  le  Cure,'  he  repeated 
again,  '  not  at  all.  And,  withal,  you  are  a  very  noble, 
and  meek,  and  self-sacrificing  gentleman,  M.  le  Cure. 
You  love  my  sister,  most  holy  sir;  and  yet  you  sell 
the  absolution  which  enables  her  to  marry  another. 
It  is  really  difficult  to  tell,  M.  le  Cure,  which  of  your 
admirable  qualities  predominates — your  Avarice,  or 
your  Love.  Both,  at  least,  are  equally  respectable 
in  a  priest  who  is  vowed  to  poverty  and  celibacy.' 

"'And  peace,  M.  le  Baron,'  I  added.  'You  are 
aware,  Monsieur,  that  my  profession  forbids  me  to 
chastise  you    as  you    deserve,    and    therefore    you 


300  all-saints'  eve. 

insult  me.      Pass    on,  and    interfere  with    me  no 
more.' 

"'Indeed  I  shall  not  pass  on,  M.  le  Cure,'  he 
continued,  'I  must  stay  and  compliment  you  as  you 
deserve.  It  is  a  pity,  is  it  not,  M.  le  Cure,  that 
your  vows  prevent  you  from  marrying  my  sister 
yourself?' 

"'If  you  will  not  pass  me,  M.  le  Baron,'  I  said, 
for  I  was  trembling  with  suppressed  rage ,  'I  must 
pass  you,  for  I  will  bear  this  no  longer.' 

"The  passage  was  narrow,  and  he  intentionally 
barred  the  way.  I  seized  his  horse's  reins  and  turned 
his  head,  when — my  lord — the  Baron  raised  his 
whip  and  struck  me  on  the  face!  My  fowling-piece 
was  in  my  hand — I  was  mad — I  was  furious.  I 
know  not  to  this  moment  how  it  was  done,  but  I 
fired — fired  both  barrels  of  my  gun,  and  the  next 
moment — Oh,  vion  Dieu! — he  was  lying  at  my  feet 
dead  and  bleeding — I  was  a  murderer!" 

The  priest  paused  in  his  narrative,  and  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands.  A  murmur  ran  through  the  court. 
After  a  few  moments,  however,  he  raised  his  head, 
and  continued: — 

"I  saw  him  but  for  an  instant,  and  then  turned 
and  fled.  I  cannot  remember  where  I  went,  or  what 
I  did  in  that  terrible  interval;  but  at  last  I  found 
myself  before  the  gates  of  the  Chateau  de  Peyrelade. 
A  dreadful  terror  possessed  me — I  feared  the  night, 
and  the  woods,  and  the  mountains,  and  the  pale 
moonlight.  I  thought  to  find  refuge  in  the  crowd 
of  human  beings — refuge  from  that  terrible  thought 
—refuge  from  that  hideous  sight.     But  it  pursued 


all-saints'  eve.  301 

me!  They  brought  him  in,  ghastly  and  blood-stained, 
wrapt  in  the  cloak  in  which  he  lay  upon  the  grass; 
and  on  his  pale  forehead  was  the  mark  of  my — of 
my  ....  That  night  I  was  mad.  I  remember  no- 
thing— neither  how  I  got  home — nor  how  I  left  the 
Chateau — nor  when  I  entered  my  own  door.  For 
days  I  walked  and  lived  in  a  dream  of  horror.  Then 
I  heard  of  the  trial  and  condemnation  of  an  inno- 
cent man.  I  mounted  my  'horse — I  flew — I  feared 
that  I  should  be  too  late;  but  I  had  resolved  to  kill 
myself  on  the  scaffold  if  he  was  already  dead!  I 
was  in  time,  thank  God!  and  now  I  am  ready  to 
take  his  place.  This  is  my  confession,  and,  before 
Heaven,  I  declare  it  full  and  true.  I  entreat  all 
here  present  to  pray  for  me." 

When  the  agitation  that  followed  this  confession 
had  somewhat  subsided,  and  the  jury  had  conferred 
for  a  moment  in  their  places,  the  foreman  pro- 
nounced the  prisoner  guilty,  but  recommended  him 
to  mercy.  Then  the  judge,  in  a  speech  interrupted 
more  than  once  by  emotion,  passed  sentence  of 
death;  but  concluded  by  an  intimation  that  the  case 
should  be  reported  to  the  King  as  one  deserving  his 
royal  clemency. 

The  Royal  Pardon,  thus  solicited,  followed  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  in  less  than  a  week  Andre 
Bernard  was  free.  The  Chevalier  de  Fontane  him- 
self brought  the  precious  parchment  from  Versailles, 
and  fetched  a  carriage  to  convey  the  priest  from 
prison. 

"Come  back  to  us,  dear  friend,"  he  said.  "Come 
back   to  your  chapel   and   your   flock.     Forget  the 


302  all-saints'  eve. 

past,  and  resume  the  useful  life  in  which  you  used 
to  find  your  greatest  happiness." 

But  the  priest  shook  his  head. 

"I  cannot,"  he  said.  "The  King  has  pardoned 
me,  but  I  have  yet  to  earn  the  pardon  of  Heaven. 
I  go  hence  to  la  Trappe,  there  to  pass  the  remainder 
of  my  days  in  prayer  and  penance.  Hush! — to 
remonstrate  is  useless.  I  deserve  a  far  heavier 
punishment.  I  have  more  sins  than  one  upon  my 
soul.  God  sees  my  heart,  and  He  knows  all  my 
guilt.  I  must  go — far,  far  away.  I  shall  pray  for 
your  happiness — and  hers.  Heaven  bless  you,  and 
have  mercy  on  me!  Farewell." 


THE  END. 


PRINTING    OFFICE    OF    THE     PUBLISHER. 


■%] 


\    ^lc 


sm         m  i^r 


University  Of  California.  Los  Angeles 


L  007  394  110  6 


JVA    000  364  535    5 


